nne 


THE  LIBRA«¥- 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
MRS.  VIRGINIA  B.  SPORER 


THE  NEST 


THE   NEST 
THE  WHITE    PAGODA 

THE  SUICIDE 

A   FORSAKEN    TEMPLE 

MISS  JONES  AND   THE   MAS 

TERPIECE 


BY 

ANNE  DOUGLAS  SEDGWICK 

(MRS.  BASIL  DE  SELINCOURT) 

AUTHOR  OF  "  TANTE,"   "FRANKLIN  WINSLOW   KANE,"    "A  FOUNTAIN 
SEALED,"   "THE  SHADOW  OF  LIFE,"  ETC. 


NEW   YORK 
THE  CENTURY  CO. 


Copyright,  1902,  1904,  1912,  1913,  by 

THE  CENTURY  Co. 
Copyright,  1898,  by  CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published,  January, 


PREFACE 

IT  seemed  suitable,  when  making  a  selection 
of  short  stories  for  publication  in  book  form,  to 
include  my  first  attempt  with  my  last,  and 
therefore  the  very  juvenile  production — "Miss 
Jones  and  the  Masterpiece" — finds  a  place  with 
the  others. 

My  thanks  are  due  to  the  Editors  of  the 
Century  Magazine,  Scribners'  Magazine,  and 
the  English  Review,  for  allowing  me  to  repub- 
lish  the  stories  that  appeared  in  their  pages. 

November,  1912. 


2040463 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


THE  NEST 3 

THE  WHITE  PAGODA     . 79 

THE  SUICIDE I41 

A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 181 

Miss  JONES  AND  THE  MASTERPIECE    .      .      .  267 


THE  NEST 


THE    NEST 

CHAPTER  I 

HE  seemed  to  have  had  no  time  for  think- 
ing before  he  sank  into  a  corner  of  the 
railway  carriage  and  noted,  with  a  satisfaction 
under  the  circumstances  perhaps  trivial,  that 
he  would  have  it  to  himself  for  the  swift  hour 
down  to  the  country.  Satisfactions  of  any 
sort  seemed  inappropriate,  an  appanage  that 
he  should  have  left  behind  him  for  ever  on  step- 
ping from  the  great  specialist's  door  in  Wim- 
pole  Street  two  hours  ago.  When  a  man  has 
but  a  month — at  most  two  months — to  live, 
small  hopes  and  fears  should  drop  from  him: 
he  should  be  stripped,  as  it  were,  for  the  last 
solitary  wrestle  in  the  arena  of  death. 

But  the  drive,  from  the  doctor's  to  the  city 
and  from  there  to  Paddington,  had  seemed  un- 
usually full  of  life's  solicitations.  The  soft, 
strained  eyes  of  an  over-laden  horse,  appealing 
in  patience  from  the  shade  of  dusty  blinkers; 
the  dismal  degradation  of  a  music-hall  poster 
— a  funny  man  with  reddened  nose  and  drunken 

3 


4  THE  NEST 

hat,  as  appealing  in  his  slavery  as  the  horse; 
the  vaporous  blue-green  silhouettes  of  the  Park 
on  a  silvery  sky; — he  had  found  himself  re- 
sponding to  these  with  pity,  repugnance  and 
pleasure  as  normally  as  if  they  meant  for  him 
now  what  they  always  would  have  meant. 
That  such  impressions  were  so  soon  to  cease 
must  change  all  their  meaning, — at  least,  so 
one  would  have  supposed;  he  began  to  think 
of  that  and  to  wonder  a  little  over  the  apparent 
stoicism  of  those  intervening  hours ;  but,  while 
the  mood  had  lasted,  the  fact  that  he  had  come 
to  the  end  of  things,  that  there  was  a  pit  dug 
across  his  path,  had  done  hardly  more  than 
skim  on  the  outskirts  of  his  alert  yet  calm  recep- 
tivity. He  seemed  never  to  have  noticed  more, 
never  to  have  been  more  conscious  of  the  outer 
world  and  so  little  conscious  of  himself. 

Now,  in  the  train,  the  outer  world,  wraith- 
like  in  a  sudden  summer  shower,  became  the 
background  as  it  sped  on  either  side,  and 
thoughts  were  in  the  foreground,  thoughts  of 
himself  as  doomed,  and  of  the  life  that  he  had 
loved  and  worked  in,  as  measured  into  one 
shallow  cupful  at  his  lips.  Even  yet  it  was 
almost  absurd,  the  difficulty  he  found  in  real- 
ising it.  The  doomed  figure  detached  itself, 
became  that  of  a  piteous,  a  curious  alien,  whom 


THE  NEST  5 

one  watched  respectfully  and  from  a  distance. 
From  a  safe  shore  he  observed  the  tossing  of 
the  rapidly  sinking  skiff  with  its  helpless  oc- 
cupant. It  required  a  great  pull,  push,  and 
effort  of  his  whole  being,  like  that  of  awaken- 
ing from  a  half-dream,  in  order  to  see,  in  or- 
der to  say  to  himself,  really  believing  it,  that 
he  was  the  man.  Wonder,  rather  than  dread 
or  sorrow,  was  still  the  paramount  feeling, 
though,  oppressively,  as  if  he  picked  his  steps 
about  the  verge  of  an  echoing  cavern,  turning 
away  his  eyes,  there  lurked  behind  all  that  he 
felt  the  sense  of  sudden  emptiness  and  dark. 

It  was  wonderful,  immensely  absorbing  and 
interesting,  this  idea  of  being  himself  doomed. 
Self-conscious,  observant,  sensitive  as  he  was, 
he  still  thought  more  than  felt.  It  was  at  last 
credible  and  indubitable  that  he  was  the  man, 
and  he  was  asking  himself  how  he  would  take 
it;  he  was  asking  himself  how  he  would  bear 
it.  He  was  amused  to  observe  that  the 
pathetic  old  human  vanity,  by  no  means 
stunned,  was  pushing  its  head  above  the  toss- 
ing surface  in  order  to  assure  him  again  and 
again  that  he  would  bear  it  very  well.  It 
should  be  a  graceful  and  gallant  exit.  If  there 
were  to  be  dark  moments,  moments  when  the 
cavern  sucked  him  in  and  had  him,  if  he  was 


6  THE  NEST 

to  know  horror  and  despair,  no  one  else,  at 
all  events,  should  know  that  he  knew  them ;  no 
one  else  should  share  his  suffering.  Up  to  the 
edge  of  extinction  he  would  keep  silence  and 
a  stoic  cheerfulness.  The  doctor  had  prom- 
ised him  that  there  would  be  little  pain;  there 
would  be  knowledge  only  to  conceal. 

This  vanity,  and  there  was  satisfaction  in  it 
for  all  his  ironic  insight,  was  not  so  selfish  as 
it  seemed;  the  next  turn  of  thought  led  him  to 
this.  For  no  one  had  a  right  to  share  his  suf- 
fering; or  perhaps  it  would  be  more  mag- 
nanimous to  say  that  the  some  one  of  whom 
he  was  thinking  had  a  right  to  be  spared  the 
sharing  of  it.  He  shared  so  few  of  the  things 
that  mattered  with  Kitty  that  she  might  well 
claim  immunity.  His  wife's  figure,  since  the 
very  beginning,  had  been  hovering  near  his 
thoughts,  not  once  looked  at  directly.  It 
might  be  horribly  painful  to  look  at  it,  but  he 
suspected  that  it  would  not  be  so  painful  as  to 
look  at  the  other  near  thing  that  he  must  leave 
behind:  his  work;  the  work  that  with  all  its 
grind  and  routine — so  hard  to  harness  to  at  first 
— had  now  become  so  much  a  part  of  himself. 
The  fact  that  he  might  come  nearer  to  despair, 
nearer  to  the  crumbling  edge  of  the  cavern, 
when  he  thought  of  leaving  his  work  than  when 


THE  NEST     v  7 

he  thought  of  leaving  his  wife,  was  in  itself 
a  pain;  but  it  was  an  old  pain  in  a  new  guise. 
Kitty  had  for  so  long  been  one  of  the  things 
that  counted  for  less  than  his  work.  Vanity 
even  raised  its  voice  high  enough  to  say  rue- 
fully that  they  might  get  on  badly  without  him 
at  the  Home  Office;  the  country  itself  might 
suffer.  He  smiled;  but  the  dart  told;  it  was 
perhaps  feathered  with  truth.  Yes,  everything 
most  essential  in  him,  everything  that  most 
counted,  was  answered,  called  forth  in  his 
work.  It  was  in  that  that  he  would  most  truly 
die.  For,  of  course,  in  the  many  other,  the 
young,  the  ardent,  the  foolish  hopes,  he  was 
dead  already.  And  it  was  round  the  figure 
of  his  wife,  that  light  and  radiant  figure,  sweet, 
soft,  appealing,  that  those  dead  hopes  seemed 
to  gather,  like  mist  about  a  flower. 

Poor,  lovely  little  Kitty:  the  sight  of  the 
rain-dimmed  meadow-sweet,  by  the  brookside 
in  a  passing  field,  brought  her  before  him  in 
this  aspect  of  innocent  disillusioner.  For  noth- 
ing essential,  nothing  that  counted  in  him,  was 
answered  or  called  forth  by  Kitty  except  a 
slightly  ironic  tenderness.  He  didn't  judge 
life  from  his  own  failure  to  find  splendid 
mutual  enterprise  and  sacred  mutual  compre- 
hension where  his  lover's  blindness  had  thought 


8  THE  NEST 

to  find  it.  Nor  did  he  judge  Kitty.  His  own 
blindness  was  the  fault,  if  fault  there  were, 
and  even  that  blindness  he  could  now  see  tol- 
erantly. The  dart  and  pang  had  gone  from  his 
memory  of  young  love ;  his  smile  for  it  was  in- 
dulgent; he  was  even  glad  that  the  memory 
was  there,  glad  that  he  had  known  the  illusion, 
even  if  it  were  at  the  price  of  failure  in  that 
happy  realm  of  life.  Little  of  the  sadness 
could  have  been  Kitty's ;  she  had  not  known  the 
bitterness  of  his  slow  awakening;  she  was 
easily  contented  with  the  tame  terms  of  unillu- 
mined  life.  A  charming  home;  a  fond  hus- 
band; a  pretty,  diligent  part  to  play  in  the 
political  and  social  life  of  the  countryside;  the 
nicest  taste  to  show  in  dress  and  friends; — 
Kitty,  he  imagined,  thought  of  her  life  as  com- 
pletely successful.  And  why  not?  He  him- 
self saw  love  as  an  episode  and  contentedly  ac- 
cepted the  fact  that  for  the  flower-like  woman 
and  the  man  who  works  there  can  be,  eventu- 
ally, no  deeper  bond. 

He  knew  two  or  three  other  women  who 
interested  him  more  than  Kitty  ever  could; 
to  them  he  went  when  he  wanted  to  talk  about 
anything  he  cared  for.  Kitty  was  sweet  to 
see ;  she  made  him  very  comfortable ;  she  rarely 
irritated  him.  With  friends  and  Kitty  what 


THE  NEST  9 

did  he  want  of  women  more?  Outside  these 
domestic  and  drawing-room  circles  was  the 
world  of  men  and  ideas  in  which  he  lived,  in 
which  his  real  life  had  its  roots. 

Yet,  as  the  train  neared  the  little  country 
station,  as  familiar  lanes  and  meadows  glided 
slowly  past  the  windows,  he  became  aware  that 
his  thoughts  had  more  and  more  slid  from  this 
outside  life,  this  world  of  work  and  reality,  and 
that  from  thinking  of  the  little  part  that  Kitty 
played  in  it  he  had  come  to  thinking  of  Kitty 
and  to  the  thought  that  he  was  to  see  her  for 
the  last  time. — Yes;  that  crashed  in  at  last. 
At  last  something  seemed  to  come  to  him  which, 
in  the  pain  of  it,  was  completely  adequate  to 
the  situation.  It  was  the  Kitty  of  six  years 
ago  that  he  saw  most  clearly,  the  girl  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with,  his  bride;  but  there  were 
all  the  other  memories  too,  the  little  silent  mem- 
ories, the  nothings,  the  everythings  of  daily 
life  together;  small  joys,  small  sorrows.  The 
breakfast-table,  Kitty  behind  the  coffee,  read- 
ing aloud  to  him  some  scrap  of  her  morning 
budget ;  the  garden,  Kitty  showing  him  how  a 
new  flower  was  thriving;  Kitty  riding  beside 
him  in  the  dew  to  an  early  meet ;  and,  suddenly, 
among  all  the  trivial  memories,  the  solemn 
one  that  hardly  seemed  to  go  with  Kitty  at  all, — 


io  THE  NEST 

Kitty's  face  looking  up  at  him,  disfigured  with 
grief  and  pain,  as  he  told  her  that  their  child — 
it  had  died  at  birth — was  dead. 

The  other  women,  the  interesting  ones,  the 
women  who,  more  or  less,  knew  their  way 
about  his  mind  and  soul,  were  forgotten, 
blotted  out  completely  by  the  trivial  and  the 
solemn  memories.  He  felt  no  desire  to  see 
them,  no  desire  at  all  to  say  good-bye  to  them ; 
that  would  be  to  bring  them  near.  But  he  did 
want  to  see  Kitty,  at  once.  She  was  not  near 
mind  or  soul ;  but  she  was  near  as  life  is  near ; 
near  like  the  pulse  of  his  heart ;  and,  with  all  the 
other  things,  he  felt,  suddenly,  that  Kitty  was 
his  child,  too,  and  that  paternal  yearning  was 
mingled  with  the  crying  out  of  his  whole  na- 
ture towards  her.  For  it  was  crying  out ;  and, 
if  she  was  his  child,  in  what  deep  strange  sense 
was  he  not  her  child,  too. 

The  wide  world,  the  real  world,  the  outside 
world  of  work  and  achievement,  collapsed  like  a 
crumpled  panorama ;  he  was  covering  his  eyes ; 
he  was  shuddering;  he  was  stumbling  back  to 
the  nest,  wounded  to  death,  there  to  fold  him- 
self in  darkness,  in  oblivion,  in  love. — How 
near  we  are  to  the  animal,  he  thought,  smiling, 
with  trembling  lips,  as  he  saw  the  station  slide 
outside  the  windows  at  last,  saw  the  face  of  the 


THE  NEST  ii 

station-master — he  had  never  before  known 
that  the  station-master  was  such  a  lovable  per- 
son— he  seemed  so  near  the  nest  that  he  must 
be  lovable — saw,  beyond  the  flower-wreathed 
palings,  the  dog-cart  waiting  for  him.  But  his 
deeper  self  rebuked  the  cynical  side-glance. 
The  trembling  smile,  he  knew,  had  more  of 
truth: — how  near  we  are  to  the  divine.  The 
pain  and  ecstasy  of  this  moment  of  arrival 
made  it  one  of  the  most  vivid  and  significant  of 
his  life.  Almost  worth  while  to  know  that  one 
is  to  die  in  a  month  if  the  knowledge  brings 
with  it  such  flashes  of  beauty  of  vision.  The 
whole  earth  seemed  transfigured  and  heavenly. 

Dean,  the  coachman,  gave  acquiescent  an- 
swers to  his  questions  on  the  homeward  drive. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  and  knew 
that  he  was  speaking  as  he  wanted  to  be  sure 
of  speaking  for  these  next  weeks,  with  ease  and 
lightness.  He  would  be  able  to  keep  up  before 
Kitty.  Until  the  very  end  she  should  be 
spared  everything;  there  was  joy  in  the 
thought,  and  no  longer  any  vanity.  He  would 
see  her,  be  with  her,  and  she  should  not  know. 
He  would  see  her  happy  for  their  last  month  to- 
gether. He  clasped  the  thought  of  her  happi- 
ness— with  her — to  his  heart. 

Like  all  ecstasies,  it  faded,  this  rapture  of  his 


12  THE  NEST 

return.  By  the  time  the  house  was  reached, 
the  lovely  little  Jacobean  house  that  they  had 
found  together,  the  buoyancy  was  gone  and 
what  was  left  was  a  sweetness  and  a  great 
fatigue.  He  was  to  see  her;  that  was  well; 
and  here  was  the  nest;  that  was  well,  too. 
But  he  wanted  to  fold  his  wings  and  sleep. 

Mrs.  Holland  was  not  in  the  house,  the  but- 
ler told  him,  she  and  Sir  Walter  had  gone  down 
to  the  river  together.  Holland  felt  that  he 
would  rather  not  go  after  them.  He  would 
wait  so  that  he  should  see  Kitty  alone  when  he 
first  saw  her.  He  liked  Sir  Walter,  their 
friend  and  neighbour;  it  would  not  be  difficult 
to  act  before  him,  and  he  knew  that  he  could 
begin  acting  at  once ;  but,  for  this  first  meeting 
of  the  new,  short  epoch,  he  must  see  Kitty  alone. 
So  he  had  his  tea  in  the  library — queer  to  go  on 
having  tea,  queer  to  find  one  still  liked  tea — 
and  looked  over  some  papers,  and  saw,  outside, 
the  afternoon  grow  stiller  and  more  golden,  and 
knew  that  all  dreads  were  in  abeyance  and  that 
the  somnolence,  as  of  a  drugged  sweetness  and 
fatigue,  still  kept  him  safe. 

He  was  conscious  at  last  of  a  purely  physical 
chill;  the  library  was  cool  and  he  stepped  into 
the  sunlight  on  the  lawn,  walking  up  and  down 
among  the  flowers  and,  presently,  across  the 


THE  NEST  13 

grassy  terraces,  to  the  lower  groups  of  trees, 
vaguely  directing  his  steps  to  the  little  sum- 
mer-house that  faced  the  west  and  was  as  full 
of  sunlight  at  this  hour  as  a  fretted  shell  of 
warm,  lapping  sea-water.  They  could  not  see 
him,  on  their  way  up  from  the  river,  nor  he 
them,  from  here,  and  after  a  half-hour  or  so 
of  dreamy  basking  it  would  be  time  to  dress  for 
dinner,  Sir  Walter  would  have  gone  and  Kitty 
would  be  at  the  house  again. 

He  followed  the  narrow  path,  set  thickly 
with  young  ashes  and  sycamores,  and  saw  be- 
yond the  trees  the  roof  of  the  summer-house 
heaped  with  illumined  festoons  of  traveller's- 
joy,  and  then,  when  he  was  near,  he  heard 
voices  within  it,  Kitty's  voice  and  Sir  Walter's. 

Hesitating,  half-turning  to  go  back,  it  was  as 
if  a  childish  panic  of  shyness  seized  him,  so  that 
he  smiled  at  himself  as  he  stood  there,  in  the 
arrested  attitude  of  an  involuntary  eaves- 
dropper. But  the  smile  faded.  A  look  of  be- 
wilderment came  to  his  face.  Kitty  was  weep- 
ing and  Sir  Walter  was  pleading  with  her,  and 
so  strange  was  Sir  Walter's  voice,  so  strange 
what  he  was  saying  to  Kitty,  that  all  the 
strangeness  of  the  day  found  now  its  culmi- 
nating moment. 

He  walked  on,  slowly,  unwillingly,  helplessly, 


14  THE  NEST 

walked  on,  as  he  now  knew,  into  some  far  other 
form  of  suffering  than  any  that  had  been  fore- 
seen by  him  that  afternoon. 

A  rustic  seat  ran  round  the  summer-house. 
On  the  side  most  hidden  he  sank  down.  He 
did  not  choose  the  hidden  side.  He  had  no 
feeling  of  will  or  choice;  had  they  come  out 
upon  him  he  would  have  looked  at  them  with  the 
same  bewildered  eyes.  But,  dully,  he  felt  that 
he  must  know, — know, — why  Kitty  was  un- 
happy. 

Sunken  on  the  seat,  among  the  traveller's- 
joy,  exhausted,  yet  alert,  his  head  dizzy  and  his 
heart  stilled,  as  it  were,  to  listen,  it  was  this 
amazement  and  curiosity  that  Holland  felt 
rather  than  anger,  jealousy,  or  grief. 

Kitty  was  unhappy;  Sir  Walter  loved  her, 
and  she  loved  Sir  Walter.  Sir  Walter  was  im- 
ploring her  to  come  away  with  him.  "But  you 
do  love  me,"  was  the  phrase  that  he  repeated 
again  and  again,  the  strong  protest  of  fact 
against  her  refusal. 

The  dizziness  lifting,  the  heart  beating  more 
normally,  Holland  knew  more.  Kitty  was  un- 
happy and  loved  Sir  Walter,  but,  deeper  than 
that,  was  the  truth  that  she  was  happy  in  her 
knowledge  of  his  love,  deeper  than  that — 
though  this  depth  was  of  thankfulness  in  her 


THE  NEST  15 

husband's  heart — was  the  truth  that  the  love 
was  as  yet  a  beautiful  pastime;  there  was  joy 
for  her  in  her  own  sadness,  drama  in  her  pain ; 
she  was  a  child  with  a  strange  toy  in  her  hand ; 
it  charmed  her  and  she  had  not  learned  to 
dread  it. 

Her  husband's  comprehension  of  her,  of  her 
childishness,  her  fluidity,  her  weakness,  actually 
touched  with  respect  his  comprehension  of  Sir 
Walter;  for  Sir  Walter's  strength  was  rever- 
ent, even  in  his  recklessness  there  was  dignity. 
Holland  knew  that  he  spoke  the  truth  when  he 
said  to  Kitty  that  she  might  trust  him  for  life. 

It  was  the  real  thing  with  Sir  Walter.  With 
Kitty  the  real  thing  could  be  little  more  than 
the  response  to  reality  in  others.  There  was 
the  danger  that  her  husband  steadied  himself  to 
look  at,  as  he  sat  in  the  sunlight  outside  the 
summer-house  and  listened. 

The  dizziness  was  quite  gone.  He  had  never 
felt  a  greater  mental  clarity.  He  knew  that 
he  must  be  suffering ;  but  suffering  seemed  rele- 
gated to  some  region  of  mere  physical  sensa- 
tion. He  saw  and  understood  so  many  things 
that  he  had  never  seen  or  understood  before. 
He  felt  no  jealousy,  not  a  pang  of  the  de- 
frauded, injured  male,  not  a  throb  of  the 
broken-hearted  lover;  yet  it  was  not  indiffer- 


16  THE  NEST 

ence  to  Kitty  that  gave  him  his  immunity;  he 
had  never  cared  more  for  Kitty;  it  was,  per- 
haps, in  a  tenderer  key,  as  he  cared  for  the 
station-master,  as  he  cared,  now,  for  Sir 
Walter.  He  was  himself  soon  to  die  and,  as 
personalities,  as  related  to  his  own  life,  people 
had  ceased  to  count;  but  as  lives  that  were  to 
go  on  after  he  was  dead,  they  counted  as  they 
had  never  done  till  then ;  and  Kitty  most  of  all. 
It  was  this  intense  consciousness  of  her  youth, 
of  all  the  years  of  life  she  had  to  live,  that 
pressed  with  such  clearness  and  such  fear  upon 
him.  She  had  all  her  life  before  her  and  she 
held  in  her  hands  a  terrible,  a  beautiful  toy  that, 
suddenly  transformed  to  an  engine  of  destruc- 
tion, might  shatter  her. 

Sir  Walter  was  going.  He  said  that  he 
would  come  again  to-morrow. 

"Nicholas  will  be  here,"  said  Kitty.  She  no 
longer  wept.  Her  voice,  now  that  the  stress  of 
the  situation  was  over,  had  regained  its  pensive 
sweetness. 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  Walter,  "that's  what's  so 
odious,  darling;  he  will  always  be  here  and 
everything  will  be  twisted  and  horrible.  I  like 
your  husband." 

"He  is  a  strange  man ;  I  sometimes  think  that 
he  cares  for  nothing  but  his  work;  he  is  all 


THE  NEST  17 

thought  and  no  heart.  I  don't  believe  that  he 
would  really  mind  if  I  were  to  go  away  with 
you.  He  would  smile,  sadly  and  ironically,  and 
say:  Toor,  silly  child.'  And  then  he  would 
turn  to  his  papers.  I'm  nothing  to  him  but  a 
doll,  a  convenient,  domestic  doll.  And  he 
doesn't  care  for  playing  with  dolls  except  for 
a  little  while  now  and  then."  Kitty  spoke 
with  a  sober  pathos  that  did  not  veil  resent- 
ment. 

"Ah,  you  can  say  all  that  to  me — and  ex- 
pect me  to  go  on  bearing  seeing  you  wasted  and 
thrown  away !"  Sir  Walter  broke  out.  "What 
stands  between  us?  Why  must  we  go  on  suf- 
fering like  this?" 

"Isn't  it  a  great  joy — to  know  that  the  other 
is  there,  understanding — and  caring?" 

"A  killing  sort  of  joy." 

"How  cruel,  how  wrong  you  are,"  Kitty  mur- 
mured ;  but  her  husband  knew  that  for  her,  in- 
deed, the  joy  was  deep,  and  that  it  was  in  such 
moments  of  power  over  an  emotion  she  could 
rouse  yet  dominate  that  she  had  her  keenest 
sense  of  it. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Sir  Walter.  "I  shall 
always  want  you  to  come  away  with  me." 

"Good-bye: — for  to-day." 

"It's  you  who  are  cruel." 


i8  THE  NEST 

At  that,  silence  following,  Holland  knew  that 
Kitty's  quiet  tears  fell  again. 

Sir  Walter  was  subjugated.  He  pleaded  for 
pardon ;  promised  not  to  torment  her — to  try  not 
to  torment  her.  A  trysting-place  was  fixed  on 
for  next  day  and  Holland  felt  another  chill  of 
fear  at  Kitty's  swift  resource  and  craft  in  plan- 
ning it.  The  child  knew  how  to  plot  and  lie. 
It  thought  itself  nobly  justified,  no  doubt,  and 
that  its  fidelity  to  duty  gave  it  the  right  to 
every  liberty  of  conscience.  And  before  Sir 
Walter  went  there  was  a  moment  of  relenting 
that  showed  how  near  was  the  joy  of  yielding  to 
the  joy  of  ruthlessness.  "For  this  once, — for 
this  once  only — "  Kitty  murmured.  And  Hol- 
land knew  that  Sir  Walter  held  her  in  his  arms 
and  kissed  her. 

After  his  departure  Kitty  sat  on  for  some 
moments  in  the  summer-house.  She  sighed 
deeply  once  or  twice  and  Holland  fancied,  from 
her  light  movements,  that  she  had  leaned  her 
arms  on  the  table  and  rested  her  head  on  them. 
He  heard  presently,  that  she  was  softly  saying 
a  prayer,  and  at  the  sound,  tears  filled  his  eyes. 
Then,  rising,  she  collected  her  basket  of  flow- 
ers, her  parasol,  her  books,  and  walked  away 
with  slow  steps  along  the  path  leading  to  the 
house. 


CHAPTER  II 

TWO  facts  stood  clear  before  Holland's 
eyes.  He  had  been  culpably  blind  and 
Kitty  was  in  danger.  He  asked  himself  if  he 
had  not  been  culpably  selfish  too,  for  Kitty's 
summing  up  of  his  attitude  towards  her  would 
have  hurt  had  he  not  been  beyond  such  hurts; 
but,  looking  back,  he  could  not  see  that  he  had 
ever  pushed  Kitty  aside  nor  relegated  her  to 
the  place  of  plaything.  No;  the  ship  of  his 
romance,  all  its  sails  set  to  fairest,  sweetest 
hopes,  had  been  well-ballasted  by  the  most  seri- 
ous, most  generous  of  modern  theories  as  to  the 
right  relations  of  man  and  wife.  And  the 
shock  and  disillusion  had  been  to  find,  day  by 
day,  that  it  was,  so  to  speak,  only  the  sails  that 
Kitty  cared  for.  The  cargo,  the  purpose  of 
their  voyage,  left  her  prettily,  vaguely  indiffer- 
ent. Again  and  again,  he  remembered,  it  had 
been  as  if  he  had  led  her  down  into  the  busy 
heart  of  the  ship,  explained  the  chart  to  her, 
pointed  out  all  the  interesting  wares.  Kitty 
had  shown  a  graceful  interest,  but  with  the 

19 


20  THE  NEST 

manner  of  a  lovely  voyager,  brought  down  from 
sunny  or  starlit  contemplations  on  deck  to 
humour  the  dry  tastes  of  the  captain.  She 
didn't  care  a  bit  for  the  cargo,  or  the  purposes ; 
she  didn't  care  a  bit  for  any  of  his  interests  nor 
wish  to  share  them;  his  interests,  in  so  far  as 
specialized  and  unrelated  to  their  romance, 
were,  she  intimated,  by  every  retreating  grace 
— as  of  gathered-up  skirts  and  a  backward 
smile  for  the  captain  in  his  prosy  room — the 
captain's  own  particular  manly  business;  her 
business  was  to  be  womanly,  that  is,  to  be 
charming,  to  feel  the  breeze  in  the  sails,  and 
to  gaze  at  the  stars.  And  though,  now  for  the 
first  time  he  saw  it,  Kitty  was  not  the  happy, 
facilely  contented  woman  he  had  thought  her, 
it  was  really  as  if  the  ship,  with  weightier  car- 
goes to  carry,  more  distant  ports  to  reach,  had 
undergone  a  transformation ;  throbbing  '  and 
complicated  machinery  moved  instead  of  sails, 
and  on  its  workaday  decks  Kitty  strolled  wist- 
fully, missing  the  sails,  missing  the  romance, 
but  missing  only  that. 

He  had  accepted,  helplessly,  her  interpre- 
tation of  their  specialised  existences,  hoping 
only  that  hers  might  assume  the  significance 
that  would,  perhaps,  justify  the  old-fashioned 
separation  of  interests;  but  no  children  came 


THE  NEST  21 

after  the  first,  the  child  that  died  at  birth,  the 
child  that  his  heart  ached  over  still;  and  he 
could  not  believe  that  Kitty  felt  the  lack,  could 
hardly  believe  that  she  shared  his  hope  for 
other  children.  She  had  suffered  terribly  in 
the  birth  of  the  one,  more,  perhaps,  than  in 
its  death — though  that  had  temporarily  crushed 
her — and  she  had  been  horribly  frightened  by 
the  cruelties  and  perils  of  maternity.  So, 
though  he  had  come  to  think  of  her  as  es- 
sentially womanly,  it  was  in  a  rather  narrow 
sense ;  the  term  had  by  degrees  lost  many,  even, 
of  its  warm,  instinctive  associations,  and  as  he 
now  sat  thinking,  near  the  summer-house,  it 
took  on  its  narrowest,  if  most  piteous  meaning. 
Kitty  was  essentially  womanly.  She  needed 
some  one  to  be  in  love  with  her.  Her  husband 
had  ceased  to  be  in  love — though  he  had  not 
ceased  to  be  a  loving  husband — and  she  re- 
sponded helplessly  to  a  lover's  appeal.  Sir 
Walter's  appeal  was  very  persuasive.  A  ship 
of  snowy,  wing-like  sails,  a  fairy  ship,  rocked 
on  the  waves  at  the  very  edge  of  Kitty's  shel- 
tered life.  Only  a  shutting  of  the  eyes,  a 
holding  of  the  breath,  and  she  would  be  car- 
ried across  the  narrow  intervening  depth  to  the 
deck,  to  freedom,  to  safety — she  would  believe 
— to  sails  trimmed  for  an  immortal  romance. 


22  THE  NEST 

Would  Kitty's  cowardice,  and  Kitty's  prayers 
— they  were  interwoven  he  felt  sure — keep  her 
for  one  month  from  running  away  with  Sir 
Walter  ?  In  only  a  month's  time  she  could  re- 
spond and  not  be  shattered:  in  only  a  month's 
time  the  ship  of  romance  would  be  really  safe, 
she  might  walk  on  board  with  no  shutting  of  the 
eyes  or  holding  of  the  breath.  Holland  gazed, 
and  the  facts  became  clearer  and  more  ominous. 
For  the  lack  of  a  knowledge  that  was  his,  Kitty 
and  Sir  Walter  might  wreck  their  lives.  All 
the  motives  for  the  concealment  of  his  secret, 
the  vanity,  the  bravery,  the  cherishing  tender- 
ness that  had  inspired  him,  were  scattered  to 
the  winds.  The  nest  was  a  tattered,  wind- 
pierced  ruin.  And  he,  already,  was  a  ghost. 
Kitty  should  not  lack  the  knowledge. 

The  dew  was  falling,  and  he  had  grown 
chilly.  He  walked  back  quickly  to  the  house 
that  he  had  left  a  little  while  ago  so  vividly 
aware  of  the  sweetness  that  the  shallow  cup 
might  hold.  The  cup  was  empty.  Not  a  drop 
of  self  was  left  to  hope  or  live  for. 

He  waited  till  the  next  day  to  tell  her.  He 
did  not  feel  a  tremor,  he  felt  too  deep  a  fatigue. 

Their  meeting  at  dinner  was  a  placid  gliding 
over  the  depths;  two  hooded  gondolas  floating 


THE  NEST  23 

side  by  side,  each  with  its  shrouded  secret.  But 
skill  and  vigilance  were  his.  Kitty's  gondola 
drifted  with  the  current,  knowing  no  need  of 
skill,  secure  of  secrecy.  The  eyes  she  quietly 
lifted  to  her  husband  were  unclouded.  He 
guessed  the  inner  drama  that  held  her  thoughts, 
the  tragically  beautiful  role  that  she  herself 
played  in  it.  It  was  as  a  heroine  that  she  saw 
herself.  Why  not,  indeed.  No  heroine  could 
have  played  her  part  more  gracefully  and 
worthily,  and  a  heroine's  innocent  eyes  could 
not  be  expected  to  see  as  far  as  his  "ironic" 
ones. 

It  was  the  sense  of  distance,  from  her,  from 
everything,  that  grew  upon  him  during  the 
long  intervals  of  the  night  when  he  lay  awake 
and  watched  the  stars  slowly  cross  his  open 
window.  He  was  no  longer  divided  from  him- 
self, no  longer  groping,  as  in  the  train,  to  find 
a  clue  between  the  doomed  man  and  the 
watcher.  The  self  that  he  had  found  was 
adrift  upon  a  sea,  solitary  indeed,  and  saw 
pigmy  figures  moving  in  the  shifting  lights  and 
shadows  of  the  shore.  His  mild  pre-occupa- 
tion  was  with  one  figure,  light,  fluttering,  fool- 
ish: she  was  walking  near  the  verge  of  the 
cliff  and  her  foothold  might  give  way.  He  in- 
tended to  signal  to  her  and  to  point  out  a  safe 


24  THE  NEST 

road  through  the  cornfields,  before  he  turned 
himself  again  to  loneliness,  the  sky,  and  the 
sea  that  was  soon  to  engulf  him. 


This  self-obliterating  immensity  of  mood 
was  contracted  and  ruffled  next  morning  by  the 
trivial  difficulties  that  stood  in  the  way  of  his 
determination.  He  went  to  Kitty's  boudoir — 
and,  in  spite  of  immensities,  he  knew  that  his 
heart  beat  heavily  under  the  burden  of  its 
project,  how  careful  he  must  be,  how  delicate 
— to  find  her  interviewing  the  cook.  In  the 
garden,  she  was  talking  to  the  gardener,  and 
afterwards,  in  her  room,  she  was  trying  on  a 
tea-gown  before  the  mirror.  Actually  he  felt 
some  irritation. 

"When  can  I  see  you,  Kitty?"  he  asked. 

Her  eyes  in  the  glass  met  his  with  surprise 
at  his  tone;  but  surprise  was  all.  "See  me? 
Here  I  am.  What  is  it? — No,  Cecile,  the  sash 
must  knot,  so;  tie  it  more  to  the  side." 

"I  want  to  talk  over  something  with  you." 

"I'm  rather  busy  this  morning.  Will  after 
lunch  do?  Don't  you  see,  Cecile,  like  this." 

"No,  it  won't.  I  must  see  you  now,"  said 
Holland,  almost  querulously. 

She  turned  her  head  to  look  at  him  and  a 


THE  NEST  25 

shadow  crossed  her  face.  Suddenly,  he  saw  it, 
she  was  a  little  frightened. 

"Of  course,  directly.  I'll  come  to  the  li- 
brary." 

Seeing  that  fear,  and  smitten  with  compunc- 
tion, a  rather  silly  impulse  made  him  smile  at 
her  and  say: — "Don't  bother  to  hurry.  I  can 
wait."  But  he  did  want  her  to  hurry.  He 
felt  that  he  could  wait  no  longer. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  library.  The 
weariness  of  the  day  before  was  gone;  the 
sweetness,  of  course,  was  gone,  and  the  inhu- 
man immensity  was  gone  too.  He  felt  oddly 
normal  and  reasonable,  detached  yet  impli- 
cated ;  almost  like  a  friendly  family  doctor  come 
to  break  the  fatal  news  to  the  ignorant  wife. 
It  was  just  the  anxiety  that  the  doctor  might 
feel,  the  grave  trouble  and  the  twinge  of  awk- 
wardness. 

He  had  only  waited  for  ten  minutes  when 
Kitty  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

Kitty  Holland  was  still  a  young  woman  and 
looked  younger  than  her  years.  The  round- 
ness and  blueness  and  steady  gaze  of  her  eyes, 
the  bloom  of  her  cheeks  and  innocent  lustre  of 
her  golden  hair  gave  an  infantile  quality  to 
her  loveliness.  She  was  not  a  vain  woman,  but 
she  was  conscious  of  these  advantages  and  the 


26  THE  NEST 

consciousness  had  touched  the  child-like  can- 
dour and  confidingness  with  a  little  artificiality, 
for  long  apparent  to  her  husband's  kindly  but 
dispassionate  eye.  To  other  people  Mrs.  Hol- 
land's manner,  the  whispering  vagueness  of 
her  voice,  the  wistful  dwelling  of  her  glance, 
was  felt  to  be  artificial  only  as  the  gold  em- 
broideries and  serrated  edges  on  the  robes  of 
a  Fra  Angelico  angel  are  felt  as  something 
added  and  decorative.  Kitty  was  far  too  in- 
telligent to  try  to  look  like  a  Fra  Angelico 
angel;  she  was  picturesque  as  only  the  ex- 
tremely fashionable  can  be  picturesque;  but 
Holland  knew  she  was  conscious  that  she  re- 
minded people  of  an  angel,  and  of  a  child,  and 
that  she  reminded  herself  continually  of  all 
sorts  of  exquisite  things,  partly  because  she 
was  dreamily  self-conscious  and  keenly  aware 
of  exquisiteness,  and  partly  because  he  had,  in 
their  first  year,  the  year  of  sails  and  breezes, 
so  impressed  these  things  upon  her  attention. 
He  himself  had  grown  accustomed  to — per- 
haps a  little  tired  of — the  lily  poise  of  the  head, 
the  long,  gentle  hands,  the  floating  step,  quite 
the  step  of  an  angel  aware  of  flower-dappled 
grass  beneath  its  feet  and  the  flutter  of  em- 
broidered draperies.  But  Kitty,  though  ac- 
customed to  these  graces,  in  herself,  had  not 


THE  NEST  27 

grown  tired  of  them,  they  had,  indeed,  more 
and  more  filled  the  foreground  of  her  delicate 
and  decorative  life,  so  that  he  could  guess  at 
how  much  his  own  indifference  had  helped  to 
alienate  her. 

And  now,  as  he  turned  to  look  at  her,  these 
half  ironic,  half  affectionate  impressions  hov- 
ered as  a  background,  and,  sharply  drawn  upon 
it,  with  the  biting  acid  of  his  new  perceptions, 
he  saw  something  else  in  Kitty's  face  that  he 
had  never  seen  before. 

Already  he  had  seen  her  as  a  womanly 
woman,  as  that  in  its  narrowest  sense.  He 
saw  her  now  as  a  type  of  the  woman  who  live 
in  and  through  and  for  their  affections,  and 
this  with  their  sensations  rather  than  with 
their  intelligences.  Vividly  his  memory  struck 
them  out; — the  faces  of  the  satisfied  women, 
taking  on,  as  years  pass  over  them,  as  experi- 
ence detaches  from  the  craving,  sentimental 
self,  and  frees  the  instincts  to  push,  climb, 
cling  in  roots  and  tendrils  for  other  selves,  a 
vegetable  serenity  and  simplicity; — and,  more 
vividly,  with  discomfort  in  the  memory,  the 
faces  of  the  unsatisfied;  the  womanly  married 
woman  whose  romance  is  over,  the  spinster  who 
has  missed  romance ;  faces  chiselled  to  subtlety 
by  dreams  and  frustration. 


28  THE  NEST 

On  Kitty's  face  he  saw  it  now,  that  look  of  a 
subtlety  childlike,  innocent,  of  flesh  rather  than 
of  spirit,  yet,  in  its  very  unconsciousness,  al- 
most sinister.  For  a  moment,  as  the  lines  of 
the  sharp  new  perception  etched  themselves, 
lines  gossamer-like  in  fineness,  floating,  trans- 
forming shadows  rather  than  lines,  he  was 
afraid  of  his  wife,  afraid  of  the  alien,  mysteri- 
ous force  he  guessed  in  her. 

For  the  delicately  sinister  subtlety  was  re- 
mote from  his  understanding,  was  a  subtlety 
that  .no  man's  face  can  show,  capable  as  it  is 
of  a  grossness  and  corruption  merely  animal 
by  contrast;  open  and  obvious.  Kitty's  sub- 
tlety did  not  make  her  animal:  it  made  her 
more  than  ever  like  an  angel;  but  an  ambigu- 
ous angel;  and  to  feel  that  he  did  not  under- 
stand her  made  her  strange.  It  was  no  clue  to 
feel  that  she  did  not  understand  herself ;  it  was 
only  a  further  depth  of  mystery. 

He  was  ashamed  of  his  own  folly  in  another 
moment,  ashamed  of  an  insight  distorted  and 
distorting,  so  he  told  himself.  Over  and  above 
all  such  morbidities  was  the  fact  that  Kitty 
was  looking  at  him  with  the  eyes  of  a  fright- 
ened child — a  real  child. 

The  reaction  from  his  fear,  the  recognition  of 
her  fear,  stirred  in  him  a  love  more  personal 


THE  NEST  29 

than  any  of  the  vast  benevolences  that  he  had 
felt.  He  went  to  her  and  led  her  to  the  win- 
dow-seat where,  sitting  down  himself,  holding 
both  her  hands  in  his  and  looking  up  at  her 
standing  before  him,  he  said  with  the  quiet  of 
long-prepared  words:  "Kitty,  dear,  I  have 
something  that  I  want  to  tell  you  and  that  will 
make  you,  I  think,  a  little  sad.  We  have  had 
happy  times  together,  haven't  we?  It  isn't  all 
regret.  You  and  I  are  going  to  part,  Kitty." 

She  gazed  at  him  and  terror  widened  her 
eyes.  She  could  not  speak.  She  did  not  move. 
Her  hands  in  his  hands  seemed  dead. 

He  saw  in  a  moment  what  the  fear  was  that 
showed  itself  in  this  torpor  of  apprehension, 
and  he  hastened  on  so  that  she  should  not,  in 
her  dread,  reveal  the  secret  that  need  never  be 
spoken. 

"I'm  going  to  die,  Kitty,"  he  said,  "I  had  my 
sentence  yesterday,  from  Dr.  Farebrother.  I 
never  dreamed  that  it  was  anything  serious, 
that  complaint  of  mine,  you  know, — never 
dreamed  it  even  when  it  began  to  trouble  me 
a  good  deal,  as  it  has  of  late.  But  it's  not 
what  I  thought.  It's  fatal;  and  it  will  gallop 
now.  He  gives  me  one  month — at  the  very 
most,  two  months."  He  spoke  deliberately, 
though  swiftly,  and,  as  he  finished,  he  smiled 


30  THE  NEST 

up  at  her,  a  reassuring  smile.  His  wife's  di- 
lated eyes,  fixed  on  him,  made  him  flush  a  little 
in  the  ensuing  pause.  He  felt  that  the  smile 
had  been  inept.  He  had  spoken  too  much  from 
the  height  of  his  detachment,  and  the  placidity 
of  his  words  might  well  seem  horrible  to  her. 

She  was  finding  it  horrible.  She  seemed  to 
be  breathing  the  icy  air  of  a  vault  that  he  had 
opened  before  her ;  heavy,  slow,  painful  breaths, 
those  of  a  sleeper  oppressed  by  nightmare ;  the 
sound  of  them,  the  sight  of  her  labouring  breast 
hurt  him.  He  put  his  arms  around  her  and 
smiled  now,  as  one  smiles  at  a  child  to  console 
it.  "I've  frightened  you,"  he  said;  "forgive 
me.  You  see,  one  gets  used  to  it,  so  soon,  for 
oneself.  Dear  little  Kitty,  I'm  so  sorry." 

Still  she  did  not  speak.  Still  it  was  that 
torpid  terror  that  gazed  at  him.  And  the  ter- 
ror was  not  for  what  he  had  thought  it  was; 
it  was  for  what  he  had  said.  It  was  a  con- 
tagious terror.  She  cared.  In  some  unex- 
plained, unforeseen  way  she  cared  terribly ;  and 
his  projects  crumbled  beneath  her  gaze;  be- 
wilderment drifted  in  his  mind ;  her  fear  gained 
him. 

"What  is  the  matter?  What  is  it?"  he 
asked. 

The    change    and    sharpness    in   his    voice 


THE  NEST  31 

brought  them  near  at  last.  Kitty  seized  his 
hands  and  lifted  them  from  her ;  yet  grasping, 
clinging  as  she  held  him  off.  He  would  not 
have  thought  her  face  capable  of  such  fierce- 
ness and  demand.  She  was  hardly  recog- 
nisable as  she  said:  "Do  you  want  to  die? 
Don't  you  mind  dying?" 

"Mind? — I  should  rather  not,  of  course.  I 
care  for  my  life.  But  one  must  face  it;  what 
else  is  there  to  do? — And, — what  is  it  Kitty? 
What  have  I  done  to  you  ?" 

And  now,  her  head  fallen  back,  her  eyes 
closed,  tears  ran  down  her  face,  as  piteously, 
agonised  and  stricken,  she  asked : 

"Don't  you  love  me  at  all?  Don't  you  mind 
leaving  me  at  all  ?" 

His  astonishment  was  so  great  that  for  a  mo- 
ment it  bereft  him  of  words.  He  had  risen  and 
was  holding  her ;  her  eyes  were  closed  and  she 
sobbed  and  sobbed,  her  head  fallen  back.  And 
her  passion  of  sorrow  and  despair,  her  loveli- 
ness, too,  and  youth,  seized  and  shook  him;  so 
that  all  the  things  he  had  not  felt  yet,  all  the 
hovering,  dreadful  things,  the  dark  forms  of 
the  cavern,  encompassed,  pressed  upon  him; 
despair  and  longing,  the  horror  of  annihila- 
tion, the  agonising  sweetness  of  life.  It  was 
as  if  a  hidden  wound  had  been  opened  and  that 


32  THE  NEST 

his  blood  was  gushing  forth,  not  to  peace,  but 
to  pain  and  torment.  He  felt  his  own  sobs 
rising ;  she  cared ;  how  much  she  cared.  It  was 
as  if  her  caring  gave  him  back  the  self  that 
yesterday  had  blotted  out ;  in  her  pain  he  knew 
his  own;  in  her  self  he  saw  and  mourned  his 
own  doomed  and  piteous  self.  His  head  leaned 
to  hers  and  his  lips  sought  hers,  when,  sud- 
denly, a  furious  memory  came,  and  indignation 
suffocated  him. 

He  thrust  her  violently  away,  holding  her  by 
the  shoulders.  "How  dare  you!  how  dare 
you!"  he  cried.  "You  don't  love  me.  You 
don't  mind  my  dying.  How  dare  you  torture 
me  like  this — when  it's  not  real, — when  I  was 
at  peace." 

It  was  like  a  wild,  impossible  dream.  Their 
faces  stared  at  each  other;  their  hands  seized 
each  other;  they  spoke,  their  voices  clashing, 
and  shaken  by  strangling  sobs. 

"How  dare  you  say  that  to  me!  You  have 
broken  my  heart !  You  haven't  cared  for  years 
— for  years!"  Kitty  cried.  "I've  longed — 
longed.  It  is  too  horrible.  How  dare  you 
come  and  tell  me  that  you  are  going  to  die  and 
that  it  will  make  me  a  little  sad.  Oh!  I  love 
you — and  you  are  horrible  to  me." 

"You  are  lying,  Kitty — you  are  lying!" 


THE  NEST  33 

"That  too!  You  can  say  that!  To  me! 
Tome!" 

"It's  true.  You  know  you  lie.  I  haven't 
loved  you  as  I  did.  But  I've  cared — good 
God!  I  see  now  how  much. — It  is  you  who 
have  ceased  to  care." 

At  these  words  Kitty  was  transfigured. 
Joy,  joy  unmistakable,  flamed  up  in  her.  It 
mounted  to  her  eyes  and  lips,  revivifying  her 
ravaged  face,  beaming  forth,  inundating  him, 
unfaltering,  assured,  absolute.  "Darling — 
darling — you  love  me?  you  do  love  me? — Oh, 
you  shan't  die — I  won't  let  you  die.  My  love 
will  keep  you  with  me.  We  will  forget  all 
these  years  when  we  haven't  understood — 
when  we've  forgotten.  We  will  forget  every- 
thing— except  that  we  love  each  other  and  that 
that  is  all  there  is  to  live  for  in  the  world." 

"And — Sir  Walter? — "  he  said,  simply  and 
helplessly. 

Kitty's  arms  were  about  his  neck,  her  trans- 
figured face  was  upturned  to  him.  Wor- 
shipped by  those  eyes,  held  in  that  embrace,  his 
words,  in  his  own  ears,  were  absurd.  Yet  he 
hadn't  been  dreaming  yesterday.  Kitty  might 
make  the  words  seem  absurd;  but  even  Kitty's 
eyes  and  Kitty's  arms  could  not  conjure  away 
the  facts  of  the  sunlit  summer-house,  the  tears, 


34  THE  NEST 

the  parting  kiss.  What  of  Sir  Walter? 
What  else  was  there  left  to  say? 

But  after  he  had  said  them,  and  stood  looking 
at  her,  it  was  as  if  his  words  released  the  last 
depths  of  her  rapture.  She  did  not  flush  or 
falter  or  show,  even,  any  shock  or  surprise. 
Her  arms  about  him,  her  eyes  on  his,  it  was  a 
stiller,  a  more  solemn  joy  that  dwelt  on  him  and 
enfolded  him. 

"You  know?"  she  said. 

"I  heard  you  last  evening,"  Holland  an- 
swered. "I  was  sitting  outside  the  summer- 
house.  You  said  you  loved  him.  You  let  him 
kiss  you." 

"You  will  forgive  me,"  said  Kitty.  They 
were  looking  at  each  other  like  two  children. 
"I  thought  I  loved  him,  because  I  was  so  un- 
happy, and  he  is  so  dear  and  kind  and  loves  me 
so  much.  I  must  love  some  one.  I  must  be 
loved.  I  was  so  lonely.  And  you  seemed  not 
to  care  at  all  any  more.  You  were  only  my 
husband,  you  weren't  my  lover. — And  you 
don't  know  all.  He  doesn't  know  it.  But  I 
know  it  now.  And  I  must  tell  you  everything 
— all  the  dreadful  weakness — you  must  under- 
stand it  all.  Perhaps,  if  this  hadn't  come,  per- 
haps, if  you  hadn't  been  given  back  to  me  like 
this,  I  might  have  gone  away  with  him,  Nich- 


THE  NEST  35 

olas.  It  wasn't  that  I  had  ceased  to  love  you; 
it  was  that  I  had  to  be  loved  and  was  weak  be- 
fore love.  It  is  dreadful ; — I  believe  all  women 
are  like  that.  And  I  did  struggle,  oh,  I  did. 
Nicholas,  you  will  forgive  me?" 

"I  knew  it,  dear,  and  I  forgave  you." 

"You  knew  it  ?  You  loved  me  so  much  that 
you  forgave?" 

"That  was  why  I  told  you,  Kitty.  I  hadn't 
meant  to  tell  you ;  I  had  meant  to  keep  it  from 
you,  this  sadness,  and  to  make  our  last  month 
together  a  happy  one  for  you.  I  was  coming 
back  to  you  with  such  longing,  dear.  And 
then  I  heard;  and  then  I  was  afraid  that  you 
might  go  away  before  you  would  be  free." 

"You  loved  me  so  much?  You  did  it  be- 
cause you  loved  me  so  much? — Oh!  Nicholas 
—Nicholas!" 

"That  was  why  I  said  those  horrible  things. 
I  wanted  you  to  be  happy.  I  didn't  think  you 
could  be  more  than  a  little  sad  when  you  knew 
that  you  were  going  to  be  free.  Foolish,  dar- 
ling Kitty — you  are  sure  it's  me  you  do  love?" 

Again  she  could  not  speak,  but  it  was  her 
joy  that  made  her  silent.  She  was  no  more 
to  be  disbelieved  than  an  angel  appearing  in 
the  vault,  irradiating  the  darkness.  Flowers 
sprang  beneath  her  footsteps;  her  smile  was 


36  THE  NEST 

life.  And  the  memory  of  his  own  cynical 
vision  of  her  smote  him  with  a  self-reproach 
that  deepened  tenderness.  She  was  only 
subtle,  only  sinister,  when  shut  away,  unloved. 
She  was  womanly,  meant  for  love  only,  and 
her  folly  made  her  the  more  lovable.  Love  was 
all  that  was  left  him.  One  month  of  love. 
His  hands  yielded  to  her  hands;  his  eyes  an- 
swered her  eyes.  The  fragrance  of  the  flow- 
ers was  in  the  air,  the  flutter  of  heavenly  gar- 
ments. One  month  of  life;  but  how  flat,  how 
mean,  how  dusty  seemed  the  arduous  outer 
world  of  the  last  years;  how  deep  the  goblet 
of  enchantment  that  the  unambiguous  angel 
held  out  to  him. 


CHAPTER  III 

THERE  were  two  cups  to  drink,  for  he 
had  to  put  the  cup  of  death  to  her  lips. 
He  told  her  all  as  they  walked  in  the  garden 
that  afternoon;  of  the  growing  gravity  of 
symptoms,  the  interview  with  the  great  special- 
ist to  whom  his  own  doctor,  unwilling  to  pro- 
nounce a  final  verdict,  had  sent  him.  He 
begged  her  to  spare  him  further  interviews. 
He  was  to  die,  that  was  evident;  and  doctors 
could  do  nothing  for  him.  If  pain  came  he 
promised  that  he  would  take  what  relief  they 
had  to  give. 

She  leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder, 
weeping  and  weeping  as  they  walked. 

They  were  two  lovers  again,  lovers  shut  into 
the  straitest,  most  compassed  paradise.  On 
every  side  the  iron  walls  enclosed  them;  there 
were  no  distances ;  there  was  no  horizon.  But 
within  the  circle  of  doom  blossomed  the  mazy 
sweetness;  the  very  sky  seemed  to  have  nar- 
rowed to  the  roofing  of  a  bower. 

To  be  in  love  again ;  to  feel  the  whole  world 

37 


38  THE  NEST 

beating  like  a  doubled  pulse  of  you-and-I  to 
and  fro  between  them.  She  must  weep,  and 
he,  with  this  newly  born  self,  must  know  to  the 
full  the  pang  and  bitterness;  but  the  moments 
blossomed  and  smiled  over  the  dread;  because 
the  dread  was  there.  Sir  Walter  passed  away 
like  a  shadow.  Kitty  saw  him  and  came  to  her 
husband  from  the  interview  with  a  composure 
that  almost  made  him  laugh.  It  would  have 
hurt  her  feelings  for  him  to  laugh  at  her,  and 
he  listened  gravely  while  she  told  him  that  Sir 
Walter,  now,  was  going  to  accept  the  big  post 
in  India  that,  for  her  sake,  he  had  been  on  the 
point  of  refusing.  He  was  going  away  that 
very  night.  She  had  been  perfectly  frank  with 
him;  she  had  explained  to  him — "quite  simply 
and  gently"  said  Kitty — that  she  had  been  very 
foolish  and  had  let  her  friendship  for  him,  her 
fondness,  and  her  loneliness  mislead  her;  yes, 
she  had  told  him  quite  simply  that  he  would 
always  be  a  dear,  dear  friend,  but  that  she  was 
in  love  with  her  husband. 

The  poor  toy.  The  child,  with  placid  hands 
and  unpitying  eyes,  had  snapped  it  across  the 
middle  and  walked  away  from  it.  He  didn't 
need  her  to  say  it  again;  he  saw  that  she  had 
ceased  completely  to  love  Sir  Walter.  "And 
weren't  you  sorry  for  him  at  all  ?"  he  asked. 


THE  NEST  39 

"Sorry?  Of  course,  dear,  how  can  you 
ask?"  said  Kitty.  "I  was  as  tender  as  possi- 
ble. But  you  know,  I  can't  but  feel  that  he 
deserved  punishment.  Oh,  I  know  that  I  did, 
too! — don't  think  me  hard  and  self-righteous. 
But  see — see,  darling,  what  you  have  saved 
me  from!  Remember  what  he  wanted  me 
to  do.  Oh — it  was  wrong  and  cruel  of  him. 
I  shall  never  be  able  to  forgive  him,  just 
because  I  was  so  weak — just  because  I  did 
listen." 

"Ah,  do  forgive  him — just  because  you  were 
so  strong  that  you  never  let  him  guess  that  you 
were  weak,"  said  Holland.  He  was  very  sorry 
for  Sir  Walter.  And  he  was  conscious,  since 
he  might  not  smile  outwardly,  of  smiling  in- 
wardly over  the  ruthlessness  of  women  towards 
the  man,  loved  no  longer,  who  has  tarnished 
their  image  in  their  own  eyes.  The  angel  held 
him  fast  in  Paradise,  but  something  in  him,  a 
mere  sense  of  humour,  the  humour  of  the  outer 
world,  perhaps,  escaped  her  at  moments,  looked 
down  at  her,  at  himself,  at  Paradise,  and  ac- 
cepted comedy  as  well  as  tragedy.  It  was  only 
to  these  places  of  silence,  loneliness  and  con- 
templation that  Kitty  did  not  come. 

She  shared  sorrow  and  joy.  She  guessed 
too  well  at  the  terrors;  she  would  be  beside 


40  THE  NEST 

him,  her  very  heart  beating  on  his,  through  all 
the  valley  of  the  shadow;  he  would  be  able  to 
spare  her  nothing,  and  even  in  death  he  would 
not  be  alone.  And  she  was  joy.  The  years 
of  pining  and  lassitude,  the  toying  with  danger, 
the  furnace  of  affliction  that,  in  the  library,  had 
burned  the  dross  from  her  soul,  all  had  made 
another  woman  of  Kitty  from  his  girl-bride  of 
six  years  before.  She  was  joy;  she  knew  how 
to  make  it,  to  give  it.  She  surprised  him  con- 
tinually with  her  inventiveness  in  rapture. 
When  fear  came  upon  them,  she  folded  it  from 
him  with  encircling  arms.  When  fear  passed, 
she  seemed  to  lead  him  out  into  the  dew  and 
sunlight  of  early  morning  and  to  show  him  new 
paths,  new  flowers,  new  bowers  of  bliss.  All 
artifice,  all  self-centred  dreaminess,  all  the 
littler  charms,  dropped  from  her.  She  was  as 
candid,  as  single-minded,  as  passionate  as  a 
newly  created  Eve,  and  she  seemed  dowered 
with  a  magic  power  of  diversity  in  simplicity. 
There  was  no  forethought  or  plan  in  her  tri- 
umph over  satiety.  Like  a  flower,  or  an  Eve, 
she  seemed  alive  with  the  instinctive  impulse 
that  grows  from  change  to  change,  from  beauty 
to  further  beauty.  Holland,  summer-day  after 
summer-day,  was  conscious  only  of  joy  and 
sorrow;  of  these,  and  of  the  still  places  where, 


THE  NEST  41 

sometimes,  he  seemed  to  hover  above  them. 
The  serpent  of  weariness  still  slept. 

"Tell  me,  dearest,"  said  Kitty  one  day — how 
they  talked  and  talked  about  themselves,  re- 
capturing every  mutual  memory,  analysing 
long-forgotten  scenes  and  motives,  explaining 
themselves,  accusing  themselves,  for  the  joy 
of  being  forgiven — "Tell  me;  you  loved  me  so 
much  that  you  were  willing  to  give  me  up  to 
him,  to  make  me  happy,  and  to  save  me ; — but, 
if  you  hadn't  been  going  to  die — oh  darling ! — 
then  you  would  have  loved  me  too  much  to 
give  me  up,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

His  arm  was  about  her,  a  book  between  them 
— unread,  it  usually  was  unread — and  they 
were  sitting  in  the  re-consecrated  summer- 
house;  Kitty  had  insisted  on  that  punishment 
for  herself,  had  knelt  down  before  her  husband 
there  and,  despite  his  protest,  had  kissed  his 
hands,  with  tears;  the  summer-house  had  be- 
come their  sweetest  retreat. 

He  answered  her  now  swiftly,  and  with  a 
little  relief  for  the  obvious  answer :  "But  then 
I  couldn't  have  set  you  free,  dear." 

"No;"  Kitty  mused.  "I  see.  But— would 
the  fear  of  losing  me  have  made  you  re-fall  in 
love  with  me?  You  know  you  only  re-fell, 


42  THE  NEST 

darling,  only  knew  how  much  you  cared  when 
you  thought  I  was  deceiving  you,  lying  to  you, 
in  saying  that  I  loved  you ;  but  you  would  have 
loved  me — not  in  that  dreadful,  big,  inhuman 
way — but  loved  me,  just  me — loved  me  enough 
to  fight  for  me,  wouldn't  you  ?" 

He  looked  into  her  adoring,  insistent  eyes 
and  a  little  shadow  of  memory  crossed  his  mind. 
Was  she  an  altogether  unambiguous  angel? 
Was  it  there,  the  subtlety,  in  her  eyes,  her 
smile ;  something  sweet,  insinuating,  insatiable  ? 
And  as  she  fondled  him,  leaning  close  and  ques- 
tioning, it  was  as  though  a  little  eddy  of  dust 
from  the  outer  world  blew  into  Paradise 
through  an  unguarded  gate.  Well,  why  should 
not  the  dear  angel  have  a  little  dust  on  its  shin- 
ing hair  ?  It  was  a  foolish  angel,  as  he  knew ; 
and  it  lived  for  love,  as  he  knew;  and  women 
who  did  that  and  who  didn't  get  loved  enough 
grew  to  look  subtle — he  remembered  the  swift 
train  of  thought.  But  Kitty  was  loved  enough, 
so  that  there  must  be  no  subtlety  to  make  her 
beauty  stranger  and  less  sweet,  and  in  Paradise 
one  forgot  the  outer  world  and  need  not  con- 
sider it  again;  it  was  done  with  him  and  he 
with  it,  so  that  he  answered,  smiling,  "I  would 
have  loved  you  for  yourself;  I  would  have 
fought  for  you." 


THE  NEST  43 

"And  won  me,"  she  murmured,  hiding  her 
face  on  his  breast.  "Oh,  Nick,  if  only  it  had 
been  sooner,  sooner." 

Her  suffering  sanctified  even  the  shadow; 
but  he  remembered  it;  remembered  that  the 
dust  had  blown  in.  It  lay,  though  so  lightly, 
on  the  angel's  hair,  on  the  blossoms,  on  the 
bowers,  and  it  made  him  think,  at  times,  of  the 
outer  world,  of  his  old  judgments  and  values. 
He  would  have  had  to  fight  for  her,  of  course ; 
he  would  have  had  to  save  her ;  but  it  wouldn't 
have  been  because  he  had  "re-fallen."  That 
was  a  secret  that  he  kept  from  Kitty;  it  be- 
longed to  the  contemplative  region  of  thought, 
where  he  was  alone.  And  in  Paradise,  it 
seemed,  one  was  forced  to  tell  only  half-truths. 

Their  ties  with  the  outer  world  were  all 
slackened  during  these  days.  No  one  knew 
the  secret  of  the  doomed  honeymoon.  The  one 
or  two  friends  who  dropped  in  upon  them  for 
a  night  seemed  like  quaint  marionettes  crossing 
a  stage  that  now  and  then  they  agreed  to  have 
set  up  before  the  bower.  These  figures,  their 
own  relation  to  them,  quickened  the  sense  of 
secrecy  and  love.  Their  eyes  sought  each  other 
past  unconscious  eyes ;  they  had  lovers'  dexter- 
ities in  meeting  unobserved  by  their  guests,  gay 
little  escapades  when  they  would  run  away  for 


44  THE  NEST 

an  hour  drifting  on  the  river  or  wandering  in 
the  woods.  And  the  formalities  and  chatter 
of  social  life — all  these  queer  people  interested 
in  queer  things,  people  who  used  the  present 
only  for  the  future,  who  were  always  planning 
and  looking  forward, — made  the  hidden  truths 
the  sharper  and  sweeter.  Nothing,  for  the  two 
lovers,  was  to  go  on.  That  was  the  truth  that 
made  the  marionettes  so  insignificant  and  that 
made  their  love  so  deep.  There  was,  for  them, 
no  looking  forward,  no  adapting  of  means  to 
ends.  There  were  no  ends,  or,  rather,  they 
were  always  at  the  end.  And  there  was  noth- 
ing for  them  to  do  except  to  love  each  other. 

"I  feel  sometimes  as  if  we  had  become  a 
Pierrot  and  a  Pierrette,"  Holland  said  to  her. 
"It's  for  that,  I  suppose,  that  a  Pierrot  is  such 
an  uncanny  and  charming  creature; — the  fu- 
ture doesn't  exist  for  him  at  all." 

Kitty,  who  had  always  been  a  literal  person, 
and  whose  literalness  had  now  become  so  beau- 
tifully appropriate, — for  what  is  literalness  but 
a  seeing  of  the  fact  as  standing  still? — Kitty 
tried  to  smile  but  begged  him  not  to  jest  about 
such  things. 

"I'm  not  jesting,  darling.  I'm  only  musing 
on  our  strange  state.  It's  like  a  faiity-tale,  the 
life  we  lead." 


THE  NEST  45 

She  turned  her  head,  with  the  pathetic  ges- 
ture grown  habitual  with  her  of  late,  and  hid 
her  eyes  on  his  shoulder.  "Oh,  darling,"  she 
said,  "do  you  hate  to  leave  me !" 

She  had  felt  the  moment  of  detached  fancy 
as  separative,  and  he  had  now  to  soothe  her 
passionate  weeping. 

He  found  that  there  was  a  certain  pendulum- 
swing  of  mood  in  Paradise.  Emotion  was  the 
being  of  this  mood,  and  to  keep  emotion  one 
must  swing. 

Either  he  must  soothe  Kitty  or  Kitty  must 
soothe  him,  or  they  must  transcend  the  dark 
necessities  of  their  case  by  finding  in  each  other 
a  joy  including  in  its  ecstasy  the  sorrow  it  ob- 
literated. This  pendulum  swung  spontaneously 
during  those  first  weeks,  it  swung  as  their 
hearts  beat,  from  need  to  response.  And,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  third  week,  it  was  not  so 
much  a  faltering  in  the  need  or  the  response 
that  Holland  knew,  as  a  mere  lessening  of  the 
swing; — it  didn't  go  quite  so  fast  or  carry  him 
quite  so  far.  He  became  conscious  of  an  un- 
equal rhythm;  Kitty  seemed  to  swing  even 
faster  and  further. 

She  saw  him  as  dead;  that  was  the  urgent 
vision  that  lay  behind  her  demonstrations  and 
ministrations;  she  saw  him  as  more  dead  with 


46  THE  NEST 

every  day  that  passed,  and  every  moment  of 
every  day  was,  to  her,  of  passionate  signifi- 
cance. No  one  had  ever  been  idealised  as  he 
was  idealised,  or  clung  to  as  he  was  clung  to. 
The  sense  of  desperate  tendrils  enlacing  him 
was  almost  suffocating,  and  each  tendril  craved 
for  recognition;  a  lapse,  a  look,  an  inattention 
was  the  cutting  of  something  that  bled,  and 
clung  the  closer.  Every  moment  was  precious, 
and  any  not  given  to  love  was  a  robbery  from 
her  dwindling  store.  As  the  time  grew  less 
her  need  for  significance  grew  greater.  Her 
'sense  of  her  own  tragedy  grew  with  her  sense 
of  his,  and  he  must  share  both.  Resignation 
to  his  fate  was  a  resignation  of  her,  and  a  crime 
against  their  love.  Holland  by  degrees  grew 
conscious  of  keeping  himself  up  to  a  mark. 

It  was  then  that  the  blossoms  began  to  look 
a  little  over-blown,  the  paths  to  become  monot- 
onous, the  bowers  to  grow  oppressive  with 
their  heavy  sweetness  as  though  a  noonday  sun 
beat  down  changelessly  upon  them.  The  dew 
was  gone,  and  though  Kitty  remained  a  prim- 
itive Eve,  he  himself  knew  that  in  his  conscious 
ardour  there  hovered  the  vague  presence  of 
something  no  longer  pure,  something  unwhole- 
some and  enervating. 

She  saw  him  as  dead,  and  the  thought  of 


THE  NEST  47 

death,  always  with  her,  renewed  her  pity  and 
her  adoration;  he  knew  that  his  own  back- 
ground lent  a  charm  enthralling  and  poignant 
to  his  every  word,  look  and  gesture.  But  for 
him  this  charm  and  this  renewal  were  lacking. 
He  could  not  feel  such  pity,  either  for  her  or 
for  himself.  She  was  to  live,  poor  little  Kitty, 
and,  by  degrees,  the  tragedy  would  fade  and 
the  beauty  of  their  last  weeks  together  would 
remain  with  her.  There  was  no  cavern  yawn- 
ing behind  Kitty's  figure;  life,  inexorably, 
showed  him  her  smiling  future. 

And,  for  himself;  well,  if  it  was  tragic  to 
have  to  die,  it  was  a  tragedy  one  got  used  to. 
He  might  have  felt  it  more  if  only  Kitty  hadn't 
been  there  to  feel  it  so  superabundantly  for  him. 
No :  he  could  keep  up ;  he  could  see  to  it  that  the 
pendulum  didn't  falter;  but  he  couldn't  hide 
from  himself  that  its  swing  was  growing  me- 
chanical. 

By  the  end  of  the  third  week  the  serpent  was 
awake  and  walking  in  Paradise.  Holland  was 
tired ;  profoundly  tired. 

He  found  his  wife's  eyes  on  him  one  day  as 
they  sat  with  books  under  the  trees  on  the  lawn. 
He  tried  to  read  the  books  now,  though  in  a 
casual  manner  that  would  offer  no  offence  to 
Kitty's  unoccupied  hands  and  eyes.  He 


48  THE  NEST 

wanted  very  much  to  read  and  to  forget  him- 
self— to  forget  Kitty — for  a  little  while.  It 
was  difficult  to  do  this  when  such  a  desultory 
air  must  be  assumed,  when  he  must  be  ready 
to  answer  anything  she  said  at  a  moment's 
notice,  and  must  remember  to  look  up  and  smile 
at  her  or  to  read  some  passage  aloud  to  her  at 
every  few  pages.  But  he  had  been  trying  thus 
to  combine  oblivion  and  alertness  when  a  longer 
interval  than  usual  of  the  first  held  him  be- 
guiled, and  alertness,  when  it  returned,  re- 
turned too  late.  Kitty's  eyes  made  him  think 
of  the  eyes  she  had  gazed  with  on  the  day  of 
revelation  in  the  library.  They  were  candid, 
they  were  frightened ;  the  eyes  of  the  real  child. 
Now,  as  then,  they  were  drinking  in  some  new 
knowledge;  a  new  fear  and  an  old  fear,  come 
close  at  last,  were  pressing  on  her.  He  felt  so 
tired  that  he  would  have  liked  to  look  away  and 
to  have  pretended  not  to  see ;  but  he  was  not  so 
tired  as  to  be  cruel,  and  he  tried  to  smile  at  her, 
as,  tilting  his  hat  over  his  eyes  so  that  they  were 
'shadowed,  he  asked  her  what  she  was  thinking 
of. 

She  rose  and  came  to  him,  kneeling  down 
beside  his  chair  and  putting  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Kitty?"  he  asked  her, 


THE  NEST  49 

as  he  had  asked  on  that  morning  three  weeks 
before. 

"Nicholas — Nicholas — are  you  feeling 
worse  ?"  she  returned. 

Holland  was  surprised  and  almost  relieved. 
It  was  no  new  demand,  it  was  merely  a  sharper 
fear.  And  perhaps  she  was  right,  perhaps  he 
was  feeling  worse  and  the  end  was  approach- 
ing. If  so,  any  languor  would  be  taken  as 
symptomatic  of  dissolution  and  not  of  indif- 
ference, and  he  might  relax  his  hold.  Actually 
a  deep  wave  of  satisfaction  seemed  to  go  lap- 
ping through  him. 

"I  don't  feel  badly,  dear,"  he  said,  smoothing 
back  her  hair.  "You  know,  I  shall  suffer 
hardly  any  pain ;  but  I  do  feel  very  tired." 

"In  what  way  tired?"  Another  alarm  was 
in  her  voice. 

"Bodily  fatigue,  dear.  Of  course,  one 
doesn't  die  without  fading." 

He  felt,  when  he  had  said  it,  that  the  words, 
in  spite  of  his  care,  were  cruel ;  that  she  would 
feel  them  as  cruel;  he  had  gone  too  fast;  had 
tried  to  grasp  at  his  immunity  too  hastily. 

"Nicholas!"  she  gasped.  "You  speak  as  if 
I  were  accusing  you !" 

"Accusing  me,  darling !  How  could  you  be ! 
Of  what?" 

4 


50  THE  NEST 

"Oh,  Nick,"  she  sobbed,  hiding  her  face  on 
his  breast, — "Am  /  tiring  you?  Do  you  some- 
times want  me  to  go  away  and  to  leave  you 
more  alone?" 

His  heart  stood  still.  Over  her  bowed  head 
he  looked  at  the  sunlit  trees  and  flowers,  the 
hazy  glory  of  the  summer  day,  a  phantas- 
magoric setting  to  this  knot  of  human  pain  and 
fear,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  unless  he  were 
very  careful  he  might  hurt  her  irremediably; 
he  might  rob  her  of  the  memory  that  was  to 
beautify  everything  when  he  was  gone. 

He  had  found  in  a  moment,  he  felt  sure,  just 
the  right  quiet  tone,  expressing  a  comprehen- 
sion too  deep  for  the  fear  of  any  misunderstand- 
ing between  them.  "There  would  be  no  me 
left,  Kitty,  if  you  went  away.  I  am  you — all 
that  there  is  of  me.  You  are  life  itself;  don't 
talk  of  robbing  me  of  any  of  it ;  I  have  so  little 
left." 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  not  lifting  her 
face,  no  longer  weeping.  Then  in  a  voice  cu- 
riously hushed  and  controlled  she  said :  "How 
quiet  you  are;  how  peaceful  you  are — how 
terribly  peaceful." 

"You  want  me  to  be  at  peace,  don't  you, 
dear?" 


THE  NEST  51 

"You  don't  mind  leaving  life.  You  don't 
mind  leaving  me,"  she  said. 

"Kitty— Kitty " 

She  interrupted  his  protest:  "I've  nothing 
to  give  you  but  love ;  I've  never  had  anything  to 
give  you  but  love.  And  you  are  tired  of  that. 
You  are  going,  you  are  going  for  ever.  I  shall 
never  see  you  again.  And  you  don't  mind! 
You  don't  mind!"  She  broke  into  dreadful 
sobs. 

Helpless  and  tormented  he  held  her,  trying 
to  soothe,  to  reassure,  to  convince,  recovering, 
even,  in  the  vehemence  of  his  pity,  the  very 
tones  of  passionate  love,  the  personal  note  that 
her  quick  ear  had  felt  fading.  She  sobbed,  and 
sobbed,  but  answered  him  at  last,  in  the  pathetic 
little  child  language  of  their  first  honeymoon 
that  they  had  revived  and  enriched  with  new, 
sweet  follies.  But  he  felt  that  she  was  not 
really  comforted,  that  she  tried  to  delude  her- 
self. 

"You  do  feel  tired — in  your  body — only  in 
your  body? — not  in  your  soul?"  she  repeated. 
"It  isn't  /,  it's  only  you." 

"It's  only  I  who  am  dying,"  he  almost  felt 
that,  with  grim  irony,  he  would  have  liked  to 
answer  for  her  complete  reassurance.  The 


52  THE  NEST 

funny,  ugly,  pathetic  truth  peeped  out  at  him; 
she  would  rather  have  him  die  than  have  him 
cease  to  love  her. 

Soulless  sylvan  creatures,  dryads,  nymphs, 
seemed  to  gaze  from  green  shadows  among 
branches ;  the  mocking  faces  of  pucks  and  elves 
to  tilt  and  smile  in  the  breeze-shaken  flowers; 
— that  subtle  gaze,  that  sinister  smile,  of  what 
did  it  remind  him?  All  Nature  was  laughing 
at  him,  cruelly  laughing;  yet  all  Nature  was 
consoling  him. 

His  love  and  Kitty's  was  a  flower  rooted  in 
death  and  contradiction.  Not  affinity,  not  the 
growing  needs  of  normal  life  had  brought  them 
together ;  only  the  magic  of  doom  and  the  crav- 
ing to  be  loved. 

Poor  Kitty;  she  did  not  know.  It  was  his 
love  she  loved,  his  love  she  clung  to  and 
watched  for  and  caressed.  She  did  not  know 
it,  but  she  would  rather  have  him  dead  than 
have  him  loveless.  That  was  the  truth  that 
smiled  the  sinister  smile.  One  might  summon 
one's  courage  to  smile  back  at  it,  but  one  was 
rather  glad  to  be  leaving  it — and  Kitty. 

And,  in  the  days  that  followed,  when  from 
the  pretence  of  passion  he  could  find  refuge  only 
in  the  pretence  of  dying,  disgust  crept  into  the 
weariness,  he  began  to  wonder  when  the  pre- 


THE  NEST  53 

tence  would  become  reality.  He  began  to  want 
to  die. 

This  weariness,  this  irritation,  this  disgust 
belonged  to  life  rather  than  to  death;  it  was  a 
sharp  longing  to  escape  from  consciousness  of 
Kitty — Kitty,  alert  and  agonised  in  her  suspi- 
cion. It  was  a  nostalgic  longing  for  the  old, 
tame,  dusty  life,  his  work,  his  selfless  interests. 
The  month  was  almost  up,  and  yet  he  was  no 
worse;  was  he  really  going  to  last  for  another 
month  ? 

He  said  to  Kitty  one  morning  that  he  must 
go  up  to  town.  Her  face  grew  ashen.  "The 
doctor!  You  are  going  to  the  doctor,  Nich- 
olas?" 

"No,  no;  it's  only  that  Collier  is  passing 
through.  I  heard  from  him  this  morning. 
He  wants  to  see  me." 

"Why  should  you  bother  and  think  about 
work  now,  darling?" 

"Why,  dearest,  I  must  be  of  any  use  I  can 
until  the  end." 

He  tried  to  keep  lightness  in  his  voice  and 
patience  out  of  it. 

"Let  him  come  down  here.  I'll  write  myself 
and  ask  him."  She,  too,  was  assuming  some- 
thing. She,  too,  was  afraid  of  him,  as  he  of 
her. 


54  THE  NEST 

"He  hasn't  time.  He  is  on  his  way  to  the 
Continent." 

"It  will  be  bad  for  you  to  travel  now.  And 
London  in  August!"  Her  voice  was  grave, 
reproachfully  tender. 

"No,  dear,  I  promise  you  I  will  run  no  risk." 

"Promise  as  much  as  you  will" — now,  gaily, 
sweetly,  falsely,  but  how  pathetically,  she 
clasped  her  hands  about  his  arm; — "but  I 
couldn't  think  of  letting  you  go  alone:  you 
didn't  really  believe  I'd  let  you  go  alone,  dar- 
ling: I'll  come  too,  of  course.  Won't  that  be 
fun ! — Oh,  Nick,  you  want  me  to  come !  You 
don't  want  to  get  away!" — The  falsity  broke 
down  and  the  full  anguish  of  her  suspicion  was 
in  her  voice  and  eyes.  It  was  this  sincerity 
that  pierced  him  and  made  him  helpless — sick 
and  helpless.  He  was  able  now  to  blindfold  its 
dreadful  clear-sightedness  by  swift  resource: 
he  acted  his  delight,  his  gratitude:  he  hadn't 
liked  to  ask  his  dearest — all  the  bother  for  only 
a  day  and  night ;  he  had  thought  it  would  bore 
her,  for  he  must  be  most  of  the  time  with  Col- 
lier ;  but,  yes,  they  would  go  together,  since  she 
petted  him  so;  they  would  do  a  play;  he  would 
help  her  choose  a  new  hat;  it  would  be  great 
fun. 

Yet,    while    he    knotted    the    handkerchief 


THE  NEST  55 

around  her  eyes,  turned  her  about  and  confused 
her  sense  of  direction,  as  if  in  a  merry  game,  he 
knew  that  fear  and  suspicion  lurked  for  them 
both  in  their  playing. 

He  had,  indeed,  meant  to  go  to  the  doctor, 
but  now  that  must  be  postponed.  The  meeting 
with  Collier,  his  chief  at  the  Home  Office,  was 
his  only  gulp  of  freedom.  At  the  hotel  Kitty 
waited,  and  his  heart  smote  him  when  he  found 
her  sitting  just  as  he  had  left  her,  mute,  white, 
smiling  and  enduring.  She  hadn't  even  been 
to  her  dressmaker's  or  done  any  shopping  as  she 
had  promised  him  to  do.  "I  know  I  am  absurd ; 
— I  know  you  think  me,  silly; — but  I  can't — I 
can't  do  anything — think  anything — but  you!" 
she  said,  her  lips  trembling. 

"Absurd,  darling,  indeed !"  he  answered,  "as 
if  you  couldn't  think  of  me  and  order  a  new 
dress  at  the  same  time!  You  know  I  told  you 
I  wanted  to  see  you  in  a  pale  blue  lawn — isn't 
lawn  the  pretty  stuff? — And  what  of  the  hat? 
You  do  want  one? — Come,  let  us  go  out  and 
I'll  help  you  to  choose  it." 

But  she  did  not  want  to  go  out;  she  only 
wanted  to  sit  near  him,  lean  her  head  against 
him,  have  him  make  up  to  her  for  the  hours 
of  loneliness.  He  knew  that  night  at  the  play 
that  she  hardly  heard  a  word,  and  that  when 


56  THE  NEST 

once  or  twice,  he  was  lured  from  his  absorption 
and  made  to  laugh,  really  forgetting,  really 
amused,  his  laughter  hurt  her.  She  gazed  at 
the  stage  with  wide,  vacant  eyes.  He  felt  the 
strain  of  being  in  town  with  this  desperate  de- 
votion beside  him  worse  than  the  strain  of  being 
shut  up  with  it  in  the  country;  for  there  Kitty 
need  hide  and  repress  nothing,  and  his  danger 
of  hurting  her  by  forgetfulness  was  not  so 
great.  He  was  like  a  prisoner  led  about  by  his 
gaoler,  manacles  on  his  wrists  and  ankles  and 
a  yoke  on  his  neck ;  there  was  a  certain  relief  in 
going  back  to  prison  where,  at  all  events,  one 
wasn't  so  tormented  by  the  sights  and  sounds 
of  freedom,  nor  so  conscious  of  chains  and  the 
watchful  eye  upon  one. 

"This  is  the  end,"  he  thought,  as,  in  the  train, 
they  sat  side  by  side,  holding  hands  and  very 
silent,  but  that,  from  time  to  time,  when  their 
eyes  met,  she  would  smile  her  doting,  hungry 
smile  and  murmur :  "Darling." 

After  this,  the  prison  again;  the  high  walls 
and  stifling  sweetness  of  Paradise,  and  then, 
thank  goodness,  release. 

How  strange  a  contrast  to  the  journey  a 
month  ago,  when,  stunned,  shot  through,  he 
had  only  felt  the  bliss  of  home-coming,  the 
longing  for  the  nest.  It  was  all  nest  now; 


THE  NEST  57 

there  was  no  space  for  the  fear  of  death.  He 
was  shut  in,  smothered  by  this  panting  breast 
of  love. 


CHAPTER  IV 

HE  knew  that  evening  that  Kitty  was  hor- 
ribly frightened  from  the  fact  that  she 
was  horribly  careful.  She  did  not  once  press 
for  assurances  or  demonstrations  of  love.  She 
foresaw  all  his  needs,  even  his  need  of  silence. 
Delicately  assiduous,  she  pulled  his  chair  near 
the  lamp  for  him,  lit  his  cigar,  cut  the  pages  of 
his  review,  even  brought  a  footstool  for  his  feet, 
saying,  when  he  protested,  "You  are  tired,  dar- 
ling; you  must  let  me  wait  on  you." 

"And  won't  you  read,  or  sew, — or  do  some- 
thing, dear?"  he  asked,  as  she  drew  her  low 
chair  near  his. 

"I  only  want  to  sit  here  quietly,  and  look  at 
your  dear  face,"  she  said. 

And  she  sat  there,  quietly,  not  moving,  not 
speaking,  only  mutely,  gently,  fiercely  watching 
him.  Holland  felt  his  hand  tremble  as  he 
turned  the  pages. 

A  full  hour  passed  so.  Accurately,  punc- 
tually, he  turned  the  pages ;  he  had  not  under- 

58 


THE  NEST  59 

stood  one  page;  and  he  had  not  once  looked 
up. 

It  was  almost  a  sense  of  nightmare  that  grew 
upon  him,  as  if  he  were  going  to  sit  there  for 
ever,  hearing  the  clock  tick,  hearing  Kitty 
breathe,  knowing  that  he  was  watched.  Fear, 
pity,  and  repulsion  filled  his  soul. 

He  longed  at  last  to  hear  her  voice.  He  did 
not  dare  to  hear  his  own ;  something  in  it  would 
have  broken  and  revealed  him  to  her ;  but  if  she 
would  but  speak  the  nightmare  might  pass. 
And,  with  the  longing,  furtively,  involuntarily, 
he  glanced  round  at  her. 

Her  eyes  were  on  him,  fixed,  shining.  How 
horrible; — how  ridiculous.  Their  gaze  smote 
upon  his  heart  and  shattered  something, — the 
nightmare,  or  the  repulsion.  An  hysterical  sob 
and  laugh  rose  in  his  throat.  He  dropped  the 
review,  leaning  forward,  his  elbows  on  his 
knees,  his  head  in  his  hands,  and  the  tears  ran 
down  his  face. 

She  was  there,  of  course,  poor  creature,  there, 
close,  holding  him,  moaning,  weeping  with  him. 
He  could  do  nothing  but  yield  to  her  arms,  feel 
his  head  pillowed  on  her  breast,  and  mingle  his 
tears  with  hers;  but  horribly,  ridiculously,  he 
knew  that  laughter  as  well  as  weeping  shook 
him. 


60  THE  NEST 

And  he  heard  her  saying  "Oh,  my  darling — 
my  darling — is  it  because  you  must  leave  me  ?" 
— and  heard  himself  answering  "Yes,  because 
I  must  leave  you." 

"You  love  me — so  much — so  much " 

"So  much,"  he  echoed. 

And,  her  voice  rising  to  a  cry,  he  knew  how 
dead,  as  if  sounded  from  the  cavern,  his  echo 
had  been:  "You  are  not  dying!  Not  now!" 
And  it  was  again  only  the  echo  he  could  give 
her:  "Not  now,"  it  came.  Why  not  now? 
Why  could  it  not  be,  mercifully  now?  When 
in  heaven's  name  was  he  going  to  die? 

A  strong  suspicion  rose  in  him  and  seemed 
to  pulse  into  life  with  the  strong  beat  of  his 
heart.  How  strong  a  beat  it  was;  how  faint 
and  far  any  whispers  of  the  old  ill.  What  if 
he  were  not  going  to  die  ?  What  if  he  were  to 
go  on  loving  Kitty  for  a  lifetime  ? 

And  at  that  the  mere  hysterics  conquered 
the  tears;  he  burst  out  laughing.  There,  on 
Kitty's  breast,  he  laughed  and  laughed,  help- 
less, cruel  and  ridiculous. 

Terrified,  she  tried  to  still  him.  When  he 
lifted  his  face  he  saw  that  hers  was  ashen,  set 
to  meet  the  tragedy  of  imminent  parting.  Did 
she  think  it  the  death  rattle  ? 

He  flung  his  head  back  from  her  kisses, 


THE  NEST  61 

flung  himself  back  from  her  arms.  Still  laugh- 
ing the  convulsive  laugh  he  got  up  and  pushed 
away  the  chair. 

"I'm  tired— I'm  so  tired,  Kitty,"  he  said. 

She  sat,  her  hands  fallen  in  her  lap,  staring 
at  him. 

"You  are  tired,  too,"  he  went  on;  "it's  been 
a  tiring  day,  hasn't  it  ? — we  have  been  through 
a  lot,  haven't  we,  poor  Kitty?  Poor  Kitty: — 
do  go  to  bed  now.  Will  you  go  to  bed,  and 
leave  me  here  to  rest  a  little?" 

"Nicholas,  are  you  mad — what  has  happened 
to  you  ?"  she  murmured,  spellbound,  not  daring 
to  move. 

"Why,  I'm  ill,  you  know;  I'm  very  ill.  I'm 
not  mad — I'm  only  so  abominably  tired.  You 
mustn't  ask  questions ;  I  can't  stand  it, — I  can't 

stand  it "  And,  leaning  his  arms  on  the 

back  of  the  chair,  resting  his  face  on  them,  with 
tears  of  sheer  fatigue,  tears  untouched  by 
laughter — "I'm  so  tired.  I  want  to  be  alone," 
he  sobbed. 

The  abominable  moments  that  followed  were 
more  full  of  shame  for  him  than  any  he  had 
even  known: — of  shame,  and  of  relief.  He 
had  torn  his  way,  with  his  words,  out  of  the 
nest;  he  had  fallen  to  the  ground.  He  was 
ashamed  and  horrified,  yet — oh,  the  joy,  the 


62  THE  NEST 

deep  joy  of  being  on  the  ground,  out  in  the  cold, 
fresh  world,  out  of  the  nest. 

At  last  he  heard  her  speak,  slowly,  softly, 
with  difficulty,  as  though  she  were  afraid 
of  angering  him.  "Shall  I  go  away,  Nicho- 
las?" 

His  face  was  still  hidden.  "Yes,  do  go  to 
bed,"  he  answered. 

"I  can  do  nothing  for  you  ?" 

"Nothing,  dear." 

"You  are  not  dying?" 

"No;  I'm  not  feeling  in  the  least  ill." 

"You  would — send  for  me — if  you  were 
dying?" 

"Dear  Kitty, — of  course." 

"And, "  she  had  risen,  not  daring  to 

draw  near,  he  knew  that  the  trembling  voice 
came  through  tears : — "And,  you  love  me  ?  you 
love  me  a  little  ?" 

"Dear  Kitty — of  course  I  love  you." 

It  was  over.  She  was  gone.  She  had  not 
asked  for  his  good-night  kiss.  It  was  like  a 
sword  between  them. 

He  drew  a  long  breath,  lifting  his  head. 

Alone.     There  was  ecstasy  in  the  thought. 

He  walked  out  into  the  garden  and  looked 
up  at  the  stars  as  he  walked.  There  had  been 
no  stars  in  the  nest. 


THE  NEST  63 

He  didn't  think  of  death.  There  had  been 
too  much  thinking  of  death;  that  was  one  of 
the  things  he  was  tired  of.  Still  less  did  he 
want  to  think  of  Kitty  or  of  himself. 

He  looked  at  the  stars  and  thought  of  them, 
but  not  in  any  manner  emotional  or  poetical; 
he  thought  of  astronomical  facts,  dry,  sound, 
delightful  facts:  he  looked  at  the  darkened 
trees  and  dim  flowers  and  thought  of  botany: 
the  earth  he  trod  on  was  full  of  scientific  in- 
terest; the  Pierrots,  the  fairies  and  the  angels 
— yes,  the  angels  too — were  vanished.  He  hun- 
gered for  impersonal  interests  anci  informa- 
tion. 

Kitty  would,  indeed,  have  thought  him  mad ; 
after  the  calming  walk  he  came  in,  lit  a  cigar 
and  sat  for  hours  studying. 

Before  Kitty  was  up  next  morning  he  was 
on  his  way  back  to  London  to  see  the  great 
specialist. 

It  was  a  long  visit  he  paid,  an  astonishing 
visit,  though  the  astonishment,  really,  was  not 
his;  life  had  seemed  deeply  to  have  promised 
something  when  he  had  ceased  to  think  of  death 
— when  he  had  ceased  to  want  death,  even. 
That  strong  beating  of  his  heart  had  been  a 
mute  forestalling.  The  astonishment  was  the 
good,  great  doctor's,  and  it  was  reiterated  with 


64  THE  NEST 

an  emphasis  that  showed  something  of  wounded 
professional  pride  beneath  it.  It  was,  indeed, 
humiliating  to  have  made  such  a  complete  mis- 
take, to  have  seen  only  one  significance  in 
symptoms  that,  to  far-sightedness  clairvoyant 
enough,  should  have  hinted,  at  all  events,  at 
another,  and,  as  a  result,  to  have  doomed  to 
speedy  death  a  man  now  obviously  as  far  from 
dying  as  oneself:  "I  can't  forgive  myself  for 
robbing  you  of  a  month  of  life,"  the  doctor  said. 
"A  month  with  death  at  the  end  of  it  can't  be 
called  a  month  of  life." 

"Very  much  of  life,"  said  Holland.  "So 
much  so  that  I  hardly  know  yet  whether  I  am 
glad  or  sorry  that  you  were  mistaken." 

He  indeed  hardly  did  know.  All  the  way 
down  in  the  train  he  was  thinking  intently  of 
the  new  complicated  life  that  had  been  given 
back  to  him,  and  of  what  he  should  do  with  it. 
At  moments  the  thought  seemed  to  overwhelm 
him,  to  draw  him  into  gulfs  deeper  than  death's 
had  been. 

All  through  that  month  life  had  meant  the 
moment  only.  The  vistas  and  horizons  seemed 
now  to  open  and  flash  and  make  him  dizzy. 
How  could  he  take  up  again  the  burden  of  far 
ends  and  tangled  purposes?  The  dust  of  com- 


THE  NEST  65 

ing  conflicts  seemed  to  rise  to  his  nostrils.  Life 
was  perilous  and  appalling  in  its  fluctuating 
immensity. 

But,  with  all  the  disillusion  and  irony  of  his 
new  experience,  with  all  the  unwholesome  lan- 
guor that  had  unstrung  his  will,  some  deeper 
wisdom,  also,  had  been  given  him.  He  could 
turn  from  the  nightmare  vision  that  saw  time 
as  eternity. 

The  walk  in  the  night  had  brought  a  mes- 
sage. He  could  not  say  it,  nor  see  it  clearly, 
but  the  sense  of  its  presence  was  like  the  cool- 
ness and  freshness  of  wings  fanning  away 
fevers  and  nightmare.  Somewhere  there  it 
hovered,  the  significance  of  the  message,  some- 
where in  those  allied  yet  contrasted  thoughts 
of  eternity  and  time. 

There  had  been  his  mistake,  his  and  Kitty's, 
the  mistake  that  had  meant  irony  and  lassitude 
and  corruption.  To  heap  all  time  into  the 
moment,  to  make  a  false  eternity  of  it,  was  to 
arrest  something,  to  stop  blood  from  flowing, 
thought  from  growing,  was  to  create  a  night- 
mare distortion,  a  monstrous,  ballooned  trav- 
esty of  the  eternity  that,  in  moving  life, 
could  never  be  more,  could  never  be  less,  than 
the  ideal  life  sought  unceasingly. 


66  THE  NEST 

As  for  Paradise,  what  more  grotesque  illu- 
sion than  to  see  it  with  walls  around  it,  what 
more  piteous  dream  than  to  feel  it  narrowed  to 
a  nest? 


CHAPTER  V 

HE  found  Kitty  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
alone,  with  empty  hands  and  empty, 
waiting  eyes.  He  saw  that  she  had  wept,  and 
that  his  departure,  only  a  brief  note  to  break  it 
to  her,  had  added  deep  indignation  to  her  sor- 
row. She  was  no  longer  timid,  nor  cowed  by 
the  change  she  felt  in  him.  She  had  cast  aside 
subtlety  and  appeal.  It  was  a  challenge  that 
met  him  in  her  eyes. 

He  had  intended  to  tell  her  his  news  at  once 
and  the  preparatory  smile  was  on  his  lips  as  he 
entered,  a  smile,  though  he  did  not  know  this, 
strangely  like  that  smile  of  reassurance  and 
consolation  that  had  met  her  in  the  library  a 
month  ago. 

But  she  gave  him  no  time  for  a  word. 

Leaping  from  her  chair  she  faced  him,  and 
with  a  vision  still  clearer  than  that  which  had 
showed  him  subtlety  a  month  ago,  he  saw  now 
her  pettiness,  her  piteousness,  her  girlish  vio- 
lence and  weakness.  "Cruel !  Cruel !  Cruel !" 
— she  cried. 

67 


68  THE  NEST 

He  remained  standing  at  a  little  distance 
from  her,  looking  at  her  sadly  and  appealingly. 
Her  words  of  reproach  rushed  forth  and  over- 
whelmed him  like  a  frenzied  torrent. 

"To  leave  me  without  a  word,  after  last 
night !  You  treat  me  like  a  dog  that  one  kicks 
aside  because  it  wearies  one  with  its  love. 
You  have  no  heart — I've  felt  it  for  days  and 
days! — No  heart!  You  hate  me!  You  de- 
spise me!  And  what  have  I  done  to  deserve 
it  but  love — love — love  you — like  the  poor  dog ! 
But  I  know — I  know — It  is  Sir  Walter.  You 
can't  forgive  me  that —  It  has  poisoned  every- 
thing— that  ignorant  folly  of  mine.  At  first 
you  thought  you  could  forgive,  and  then  you 
grew  to  hate  me.  And  I — I — "  her  voice 
choked,  gasped  into  sobs; — "I  have  only  loved 
you — loved  you — more  and  more " 

"Kitty,  you  are  mistaken,"  said  Holland. 
"I've  never  given  Sir  Walter  a  thought."  It 
was  a  reed  she  grasped  at  in  the  torrent,  he  saw 
that  well; — a  desperate  hope. 

"It's  false!"  she  cried.  "You  have!  You 
thought  at  first  that  you  would  be  magnani- 
mous and  save  me, — you  could  be  magnani- 
mous because  you  were  going  to  die — it's  easy 
enough  to  be  magnanimous  if  you  are  going 
to  die!  easy  enough  to  be  peaceful  and  sad — 


THE  NEST  69 

and  to  stand  there  and  smile  and  smile  as  if  you 
were  only  sorry  for  me.  But  you  found  out 
that  you  were  alive  enough  to  be  jealous  after 
all,  and  that  you  could  not  really  forgive  me, 
and  then  you  hated  me." 

"Kitty — you  know  that  you  do  not  believe 
what  you  are  saying." 

"Can  you  deny  that  if  you  had  been  going 
to  live  you  would  not  have  forgiven  me?" 

"I  can.  I  could  have  forgiven.  But  then, 
as  I  said  to  you — that  day,  Kitty,  on  the  lawn, 
— it  would  have  been  more  difficult  to  save 
you." 

"Your  love,  then,  was  a  pretence  to  save 
me!" 

"Nothing  was  pretence,  at  first,"  he  an- 
swered her  patiently.  "At  first  I  was  only 
glad  for  your  sake  that  I  was  going  to  be  out 
of  the  way  so  soon ;  and  when  I  found  that  you 
could  care  for  me  again  I  was  glad  that  I  had 
still  a  month  to  live  with  you." 

His  words  smote  on  her  heart  like  stones. 
He  saw  it  and  yearned  over  her  pain ;  but  such 
yearning,  such  dispassionate  tenderness  was, 
he  knew,  the  poison  in  her  veins  that  mad- 
dened her. 

She  looked,  now,  at  last,  at  the  truth.  He 
had  not  put  it  into  words,  but  with  the  abandon- 


70  THE  NEST 

ment  of  her  specious  hope  she  saw  and  spoke  it. 

"It  was,  then,  because  it  was  only  for  a 
month." 

He  hesitated,  seeing,  too.  "That  I  was 
glad?" 

"That  you  loved  me." 

Across  the  room,  in  a  long  silence,  they 
looked  at  each  other.  And  in  the  silence  an- 
other truth  came  to  him,  cruel,  clear,  salutary. 

"Wasn't  it,  perhaps,  for  both  of  us,  because 
it  was  only  for  a  month?" 

The  shock  went  as  visibly  through  her  as 
though  it  had,  indeed,  been  a  stone  hurled  at 
her  breast.  "You  mean — you  mean — "  she 
stammered — "Oh — you  don't  believe  that  I 
love  you —  You  believe  that  it  could  pass, 
with  me,  as  it  has  with  you !"  She  threw  her- 
self into  the  chair,  casting  her  arms  on  the 
back,  burying  her  face  in  them. 

Holland,  timidly,  approached  her.  He  was 
afraid  of  the  revelation  he  must  make.  "I  be- 
lieve that  you  do  love  me,  Kitty,  and  that  I 
love  you ;  but  not  in  the  way  we  thought.  We 
neither  of  us  could  go  on  loving  like  that;  it 
was  because  it  was  only  for  a  month  that  we 
thought  we  could.  It  wasn't  real." 

"Oh,"  she  sobbed,  "that  is  the  difference — 
the  cruel  difference.  You  love  me  in  that  ter- 


THE  NEST  71 

rible  way — the  way  that  could  give  me  up  and 
not  mind;  but  I  am  in  love  with  you; — that's 
the  dreadful  difference.  Men  get  over  it;  but 
women  are  always  in  love." 

Perhaps  Kitty  saw  further  than  he  did. 
Holland  was  abashed  before  the  helpless  reve- 
lation of  a  mysterious  and  alien  sorrow.  For 
women  the  brooding  dream ;  for  men  the  active 
dusty  world.  Yet  even  here,  on  the  threshold 
of  a  secret,  absurd,  yet  perhaps,  in  its  absurd- 
ity, lovelier  than  man's  sterner  visions,  he  felt 
that,  for  her  sake,  he  must  draw  her  away  from 
the  contemplation  of  it.  That  was  one  thing 
he  had  learned,  for  Kitty.  She,  too,  must 
manage  to  fly — or  fall — out  of  the  nest;  she 
must  get,  in  some  way,  more  dust  into  her  life. 
He  had  forgotten  the  news  he  was  to  tell  her; 
he  had  forgotten  all  but  her  need. 

"Perhaps  that  is  true,  dear  Kitty,"  he  said; 
"but  isn't  it,  in  a  way,  that  women  are  merely 
in  love.  It's  not  with  anybody;  or,  rather,  it 
is  with  anybody — with  me  or  with  Sir  Walter ; 
I  mean,  anybody  who  seems  to  promise  more 
love.  Horrible  I  sound,  I  know.  Forgive  me. 
But  I  wish  I  could  shake  you  out  of  being  in 
love.  I  want  you  to  be  more  my  comrade  than 
you  have  been.  Don't  let  us  think  so  much 
of  love." 


72  THE  NEST 

But  Kitty  moaned:  "I  don't  want  a  com- 
rade. I  want  a  lover." 

And,  in  the  silence  that  followed,  lifting  her 
head  suddenly,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on  him. 

"You  talk  as  if  we  could  be  comrades,"  she 
said.  "You  talk  as  if  we  were  to  go  on  living 
together.  What  did  the  doctor  say?  I  don't 
believe  that  you  are  going  to  die." 

He  felt  ridiculous  now.  The  real  tragedy 
was  there,  between  them ;  but  the  tragedy  upon 
which  all  their  fictitious  romance  had  been  built 
was  to  tumble  about  their  ears. 

It  was  as  if  he  had  all  along  been  deceiving, 
misleading  her,  acting  on  false  pretences,  win- 
ning her  love  by  his  borrowed  funereal  splen- 
dour. Almost  shamefacedly,  looking  down 
and  stammering  over  the  silly  confession,  he 
said:  "It  was  all  a  mistake.  I'm  not  going 
to  die." 

He  did  not  look  at  her  for  some  moments. 
He  was  sure  that  she  was  deaf  and  breathless 
with  the  crash  and  crumbling. 

Presently,  when  he  did  raise  his  eyes,  he 
found  that  she  was  staring  at  him,  curiously, 
intently.  She  had  found  herself:  she  had 
found  him;  and — oh  yes — he  saw  it — he  was 
far  from  her.  The  stare,  essentially,  was  one 


THE  NEST  73 

of  a  hard  hostility.  She  had  been  betrayed  and 
robbed ;  she  could  not  forgive  him. 

"Kitty,"  he  said  timidly,  "are  you  sorry?" 

Her  sombre  gaze  dwelt  on  him. 

"Tell  me  you're  not  sorry,"  he  pleaded. 

She  answered  him  at  last :  "How  dare  you 
ask  me  that?  How  dare  you  ask  me  whether 
I  am  sorry  that  you  are  not  going  to  die  ?  You 
must  know  that  it  is  an  insult." 

"I  mean — if  I  disappointed — failed  you  so — " 

"I  must  wish  you  dead  ?  You  have  a  charm- 
ing idea  of  me." 

How  her  voice  clashed  and  clanged  with  the 
hardness,  the  warfare,  the  uproar  of  the  outer 
world.  After  the  hush,  the  gentleness  of  Par- 
adise, it  was  like  being  thrown,  dizzy  and  be- 
wildered, among  the  traffic  and  turmoil  of  a 
great  city. 

"Don't  be  cruel,"  he  murmured. 

"I?     Cruel!"  she  laughed. 

She  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room. 
A  fever  of  desperate,  baffled  anger  burned  in 
her.  He  saw  that  she  did  not  trust  herself 
to  speak.  She  was  afraid  of  betraying,  to  her- 
self and  to  him,  the  ugly  distortion  of  her  soul. 

He  was  not  to  die;  he  was  not  her  lover; 
and  Kitty  was  the  primitive  woman.  She 


74  THE  NEST 

could  be  in  love,  but  she  could  not  love  unless 
pity  were  appealed  to.  His  loss  of  all  passion 
had  killed  her  romance.  His  loss  of  all  pathos 
had,  perhaps,  killed  even  human  tenderness. 
For  it  was  he  who  had  drawn  away.  She  was 
humiliated  to  the  dust. 

And  that  she  made  a  great  effort  upon  her- 
self, so  that  to  his  eyes  the  ugliness  might  not 
be  betrayed,  he  guessed  presently  when,  look- 
ing persistently  away  from  him  and  out  at  the 
garden — their  garden !  alas ! — where  a  fine  rain 
fell  silently,  she  said:  "I  am  glad  that  your 
sorrow  is  over.  I  hope  that  you  will  find  hap- 
pier things — and  realler  things — than  you  have 
found  in  this  month.  I  will  remember  all  that 
you  have  said  to-day.  I  think  that  you  have 
cured  me  for  ever.  I  shall  not  be  in  love  again." 

"Kitty !  Kitty !"  he  breathed  out.  She  hurt 
him  too  much,  the  poor  child,  arming  its  empty 
heart  against  him.  "Don't  speak  like  that. 
Remember — the  month  has  been  beautiful." 

The  tears  rose  in  her  eyes,  but  the  hostility 
did  not  leave  them.  "Beautiful  ?  When  it  has 
not  been  real  ?" 

"Can't  we  remember  the  beauty — make  some- 
thing more  real?"  he  now  almost  wept.  But 
there  it  was,  the  shallow,  the  hard  child's  heart. 
He  was  not  in  love  with  her.  And,  like  a  nest 


THE  NEST  75 

of  snakes,  the  memory  of  all  her  humiliations 
— her  appeals,  her  proffered  love,  his  evasions 
and  withdrawals — was  awake  within  her.  She 
smiled,  a  smile  that,  seeking  magnanimity, 
found  only  bitterness.  "You  must  speak  for 
yourself,  dear  Nicholas.  For  me  it  was  real, 
and  you  have  spoiled  the  beauty." 

The  servants  came  in  while  she  spoke  and 
she  moved  aside  to  make  way  for  the  placing 
of  the  tea-table.  Traces  of  the  fever  were  upon 
her  yet ;  her  delicate  face  was  flushed,  her  eyes 
sparkled.  But  she  had  regained  the  place  she 
meant  to  keep.  She  would  own  to  no  discom- 
fitures deeper  than  those  that  were  creditable  to 
her.  Moving  here  and  there,  touching  the 
flowers  in  a  vase,  straightening  reviews  scat- 
tered on  a  table,  she  was  even  able  to  smile 
again  at  him  a  smile  almost  kind,  and  keep- 
ing, before  him,  as  well  as  for  the  servants,  all 
the  advantage  of  composure. 

That  smile  would  often  meet  him  through- 
out life,  and  so  he  would  see  her,  moving  del- 
icately and  gracefully,  making  order  and  come- 
liness about  her,  for  many  years.  She  set  the 
key.  It  was  the  key  of  their  future  life  to- 
gether, Holland  knew,  as  he  heard  her  say: 
"Do  sit  down  and  rest.  You  must  want  your 
tea  after  that  tiresome  journey." 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA 


THE    WHITE    PAGODA 

THE  drama  of  the  drawing-rooms  had  be- 
gun years  ago,  but  Owen  Stacpole  did  not 
come  into  it  until  the  day  on  which  his  cousin 
Gwendolen,  after  examining  the  box  of  bric-a- 
brac,  remarked,  refolding  the  last  pieces  of 
china  in  their  dusty  newspapers,  that  they  were 
rubbish,  and  silly  rubbish,  too,  of  just  the  sort 
that  Aunt  Pickthorne  had  always  unerringly 
accumulated.  The  box  had  arrived  that  morn- 
ing, a  legacy  from  this  deceased  relative;  it 
had  been  brought  up  to  the  drawing-room  and 
placed  upon  a  sheet  near  the  fire,  so  that  Mrs. 
Conyers  might  examine  its  contents  in  com- 
fort, and  Owen,  while  he  wrote  at  the  black 
lacquer  bureau  in  the  window,  had  been  aware 
of  Gwendolen's  gibes  and  exclamations  behind 
him.  Now,  when  she  asserted  that  she  would 
send  the  whole  futile  collection  down  to  Mr. 
Glazebrook  and  see  if  he  would  give  her  enough 
for  it  to  buy  a  pair  of  gloves  with,  Owen  rose 

79 


80  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

and  limped  to  join  her  and  to  look  down  at 
the  wooden  box  into  which  she  was  thrusting, 
with  some  vindictiveness,  the  dingy  parcels. 

"Have  you  looked  at  them  all  ?"  he  inquired. 
"I  forget — was  your  Aunt  Pickthorne  a  Mrs.  or 
a  Miss?  And  how  long  has  it  been  since  she 
died?" 

"About  six  months,  poor  old  thing.  And 
these  treasures  have  evidently  never  been  dusted 
since.  She  was  a  Mrs.  Her  husband  was  old 
Admiral  Pickthorne — don't  you  remember? — 
.and  they  lived,  after  he  retired,  at  Cheltenham. 
Two  more  guileless  Philistines  I've  never 
known.  It  used  to  make  me  feel  quite  ill  to 
go  and  stay  with  them  when  I  was  a  girl.  I've 
hardly  been  at  all  since  then,  and  that's  prob- 
ably why  she  selected  all  the  most  hideous 
objects  in  her  drawing-room  to  leave  me.  How 
well  I  remember  that  drawing-room!  Cro- 
cheted antimacassars;  and  a  round,  mahogany 
centre-table  on  which  a  lamp  used  to  stand  in 
the  evening;  and  the  wall-paper  of  frosted 
robin's-egg-blue,  with  stuffed  birds  in  cases,  and 
terracotta  plaques  framed  in  ruby  plush,  hang- 
ing upon  it — a  perfectly  horrible  room.  Half 
a  dozen  of  the  plaques  are  in  there;  the  birds 
she  spared  me.  She  had  one  or  two  lovely  old 
family  things  which  I'd  allowed  myself  to  hope 


8i 

for;  a  Spode  tea-set  I  remember.     But,  no; 
there's  nothing  worth  looking  at." 

Mrs.  Conyers  lightly  dusted  her  hands  to- 
gether, and  rose  from  her  knees.  She  was, 
at  thirty-eight,  a  very  graceful  woman;  tall, 
of  ample  form,  and  attired  with  fashionable  ease 
and  fluency.  Fashion  had  been  a  late  develop- 
ment with  Gwendolen.  In  her  gaunt  and  wist- 
ful girlhood  she  had  worn  her  hair  in  droop- 
ing Rossettian  masses,  and  her  throat  had  been 
differently  bare.  Now  she  was  as  accurate 
as  she  was  easy.  Her  hair  was  even  a  little 
too  sophisticatedly  distended,  and  her  long  pearl 
ear-rings,  though  they  became  the  tender  violet 
of  her  eyes,  emphasized,  as  her  former  Pre- 
Raphaelite  ornaments  had  not  seemed  to  do,  a 
certain  genial  commonplaceness  in  the  contours 
of  her  cheek  and  chin.  But  almost  fat  and  de- 
cisively unpoetical  as  she  had  become,  it  was 
undeniable  that  this  last  phase  of  dress  and, 
in  especial,  these  widow's  weeds,  with  sinuous 
lines  of  jet  and  lustrous  falls  of  fringes,  became 
her  better  than  any  in  which  Owen  remembered 
to  have  seen  her. 

Gwendolen's  drawing-room,  too,  had  under- 
gone, since  the  days  of  her  girlhood,  as  com- 
plete a  metamorphosis  as  she  had.  When  she 
had  married  and  left  the  big  house  in  Kensing- 


82  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

ton  where  Owen  had  spent  many  a  happy  holi- 
day— when  she  had  married  crabbed  old  Mr. 
Conyers,  the  Chislebridge  dignitary,  and  gone 
to  live  in  Chislebridge,  her  convictions  had  at 
once  expressed  themselves  luxuriantly  in  large- 
patterned  wall-papers  and  deep-cushioned  di- 
vans and  in  Eastern  fabrics  draping  the  mantel- 
piece or  cast  irrelevantly  over  carved  Indian 
screens.  Her  teas  had  been  brought  in  on  trays 
of  Indian  beaten  brass,  and  the  mosque-like 
opening  between  the  front  and  back  drawing- 
room  had  been  hung  with  translucent  curtains 
of  beaded  reeds,  through  which  one  had  to 
plunge  as  though  through  a  sheet  of  dropping 
water.  Owen  well  remembered  their  tinkle  and 
rattle  and  the  perfume  of  burning  Eastern  pas- 
tilles that  greeted  one  when,  emerging,  one 
found  oneself  in  the  dim,  rich  gloom  among  the 
divans  and  the  brasses  and  the  palms.  In 
those  days  Gwendolen  had  been  draped  rather 
than  dressed,  and  the  gestures  and  attitudes  of 
her  languid  arms  and  wrists  seemed  more 
adapted  to  a  dulcimer  than  to  a  tea-pot.  But 
she  dispensed  excellent  tea,  and  though  her  eyes 
were  appropriately  yearning,  her  talk  was  quite 
as  reassuringly  commonplace  as  Owen  had  al- 
ways found  it. 

It  was  only  in  the  course  of  years  that  the 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  83 

reed  curtains  and  the  carved  Indian  screens  and 
the  divans  ebbed  away;  but  the  change  was 
complete  at  last,  and  he  found  Gwendolen,  with 
undulated  hair  puffed  over  a  frame,  and  a  small 
waist, — large  waists  not  having  then  come  in, 
— receiving  her  visitors  in  the  most  clear,  calm, 
austere  of  rooms,  with  polished  floor,  Sheraton 
furniture,  and  Japanese  colour-prints  framed  in 
white  hanging  on  pensive  spaces  of  willow-leaf- 
green  wall.  Gwendolen  talked  of  Strauss's 
music  and  of  the  New  English  Art  Club,  was  in- 
dignant at  the  prohibition  of  "Monna  Vanna," 
and  to  some  no  longer  apt  remark  of  an  aspir- 
ing caller  answered  that  to  speak  so  was  surely 
to  Ruskinize.  He  realized  on  this  occasion  that 
Gwendolen  had  become  the  arbiter  of  taste  in 
Chislebridge.  He  followed  her  into  several 
drawing-rooms  and  observed  that  she  had  set 
the  fashion  in  furniture  and  wall-paper;  that 
some  were  pushing  their  way -toward  Japanese 
prints,  and  some  were  even  beginning  to  babble 
faintly  of  Manet.  Five  years  had  passed  since 
then,  and  now,  on  this  his  first  visit  to  Chisle- 
bridge since  old  Mr.  Conyers's  death,  another 
change  had  taken  place.  Gwendolen's  hips 
were  compressed,  her  waist  was  large  once 
more,  though  of  a  carefully  calculated  large- 
ness, and  only  in  a  fine  bit  of  the  old  furniture 


84  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

here  and  there  did  a  trace  of  the  former  green 
drawing-room  remain.  This  was  certainly  the 
most  interesting  room  that  Gwendolen  had  yet 
achieved.  There  had  been  little  character,  if 
much  charm,  in  the  green  drawing-room;  one 
knew  so  many  like  it.  With  a  slight  self-dis- 
cipline, its  harmonies  were  really  easy  to  attain. 
But  it  was  not  easy  to  attain  a  mingled  richness 
and  austerity;  to  be  recondite,  yet  lovely;  to 
set  such  cabinets  of  rosy  old  lacquer  near  such 
Chinese  screens  or  hang  subtle  strips  of  Chinese 
painting  on  just  the  right  shade  of  dim,  white 
wall.  It  took  money,  it  took  time,  it  took 
knowledge  to  find  such  delicate  cane-seated  set- 
tees framed  in  black  lacquer,  and  to  pick  up 
such  engraved  glass,  such  white  Chinese  por- 
celain and  white  Italian  earthenware.  Melt- 
ing together  in  their  dim  splendour  and  shin- 
ing softness,  they  had  so  enchantingly  arrested 
Owen  the  night  before  that,  pausing  on  the 
threshold,  he  had  said  with  a  whole-hearted- 
ness  she  had  never  yet  heard  from  him,  "Well, 
Gwen,  yours  is  the  loveliest  room  I've  ever 


seen." 


It  was  indeed  triumphantly  lovely,  although, 
examining  it  more  critically  by  the  morning 
light,  he  had  found  slight  dissatisfactions.  It 
was  perhaps  a  little  too  much  like  an  admir- 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  85 

ably  sophisticated  curiosity-shop.  It  was  an  ob- 
ject to  be  examined  with  delight,  hardly  a  sub- 
ject to  be  lived  with  with  love.  And  it  almost 
distressed  him  to  see  the  touch  of  genial  com- 
monplaceness  expressing  itself  pervasively  in 
the  big  bowls  and  jars  and  vases  of  pink  roses 
that  burgeoned  everywhere.  They  showed  no 
real  sense  of  what  the  lacquer  and  glass  and 
porcelain  demanded ;  for  they  demanded  surely 
a  more  fragile,  less  obvious  flower.  And  one 
or  two  minor  ornaments,  though  evidently 
selected  with  scrupulous  conscientiousness, 
seemed  to  him  equally  at  fault.  Still,  he  had 
again  that  morning,  before  seating  himself  to 
write,  repeated  in  all  sincerity,  "This  is  really 
the  loveliest  room,"  and  Gwendolen,  from  where 
she  knelt  above  Aunt  Pickthorne's  box,  had  an- 
swered, following  his  eyes,  "I  am  so  glad  you 
like  it,  dear  Owen." 

Gwendolen  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  her 
fondness  had  never  been  so  marked.  It  was 
of  that  he  had  been  thinking  as  he  wrote.  He 
had  never  felt  fonder  of  Gwendolen.  Her 
drawing-room  was  lovely,  her  widow's  weeds 
became  her,  and  she  was,  as  she  had  always 
been,  the  kindest  of  creatures.  In  every  sense 
the  house  would  be  a  pleasanter  one  to  stay 
at  than  in  old  Mr.  Conyers's  lifetime.  Owen 


86  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

had  not  liked  old  Mr.  Conyers,  who  had  had  too 
much  the  air  of  thinking  himself  an  historical 
figure  and  his  breakfast  historical  events,  who 
snubbed  his  wife  and  quoted  Greek  and  Latin 
pugnaciously,  and  took  the  cabinet  ministers 
and  duchesses  who  sometimes  sojourned  under 
his  roof,  with  an  unctuousness  that  made  more 
marked  the  aridity  of  his  manner  toward  less 
illustrious  guests.  The  Conyers  had  come  to 
count  in  the  eyes  of  Chislebridge  and  the  sur- 
rounding country  as  the  social  figure-heads  of 
the  studious  old  town,  and  Owen  had  found 
himself,  as  Gwendolen's  crippled,  writing 
cousin,  year  by  year  of  relatively  less  impor- 
tance in  the  eyes  of  Gwendolen's  husband. 
Actually,  as  it  happened,  he  had  during  those 
years  become  almost  illustrious  himself ;  but  his 
austere  distinction,  such  as  it  was,  had  been 
as  moonrise  rather  than  dawn,  and  had  left 
him  as  gently  impersonal  as  before,  and  even 
more  impoverished.  Negligible-looking  as  he 
knew  he  was,  he  had  sometimes  been  amused 
to  note  old  Mr.  Conyers's  bewilderment  when 
a  cabinet  minister  or  a  duchess  manifested  their 
pleasurable  excitement  in  meeting  him.  As 
for  Gwendolen,  her  essential  loyalty  and  kind- 
ness had  always  remained  the  same  since  the 
days  when  she  had  protected  him  from  the  sal- 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  87 

lies  of  her  boisterous  brothers  and  sisters  in 
the  Kensington  family  mansion — the  same  till 
now.  Last  night  and  to-day  he  had  recognised 
a  difference.  He  wondered  whether  he  was 
a  conceited  fool  for  imagining  in  Gwendolen  a 
dwelling  tenderness,  a  brooding  touch,  indeed, 
of  reminiscent  wistfulness.  Was  it  to  show 
an  unbecoming  complacency  if  he  allowed 
his  mind  to  dwell  upon  the  possibilities  that 
this  development  in  Gwendolen  presented  to 
his  imagination?  He  was  delicate  and  poor 
and,  despite  a  large  visiting-list,  he  was  lonely. 
He  was  fond  of  Gwendolen  and  of  her  two 
nice,  dull  boys.  She  amused  him,  it  was  true, 
as  she  had  always  amused  him ;  for  though  her 
drawing-room  had  become  interesting,  though 
she  had  developed  a  sense  of  humour,  or  at 
least  the  intention  of  humorousness,  though 
she  often  attempted  playfulness  and  even  irony, 
she  was  still  at  heart  as  disproportionately 
earnest  as  she  had  been  in  youth.  But  Gwen- 
dolen would  make  no  romantic  demands  upon 
him,  and  she  would  not  expect  him  to  take  even 
red  lacquer  as  seriously  as  she  did,  or  to  fol- 
low with  the  same  breathlessness  the  erratic 
movements  of  modern  aestheticism.  She  was 
accustomed  to  his  passive  unresponsiveness, 
and  would  resent  it  no  more  in  the  husband  than 


88  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

in  the  friend.  Altogether,  as  he  sat  there  writ- 
ing at  Gwendolen's  lovely  bureau,  he  knew  that 
a  sense  of  homely  magic  grew  upon  him. 

Next  morning,  wandering  about  the  pleasant 
streets  of  the  old  town,  he  found  himself  before 
the  window  of  Mr.  Glazebrook's  curiosity-shop 
— a  shop  well  known  to  more  than  Chislebridge. 
He  paused  to  look  at  the  objects  disposed  with 
a  dignified  reticence  against  a  dark  background, 
and  his  eye  was  attracted  by  a  very  delightful 
red  lacquer  box  that  at  once  made  him  think 
of  Gwendolen's  drawing-room.  Just  the  thing 
for  her,  it  was.  But  as  he  entered  the  shop, 
Mr.  Glazebrook  leaned  from  within  and  took  it 
from  its  place  in  the  window.  He  was  showing 
it  to  another  customer. 

Owen  now  quite  vehemently  longed  to  pos- 
sess the  box,  which,  he  saw,  as  Mr.  Glazebrook 
displayed  it,  was  cunningly  fitted  with  little 
inner  segments,  beautifully  patterned  in  gold. 
Feigning  an  indifferent  survey  of  the  shop,  he 
lingered  near,  hoping  that  his  rival  would  re- 
linquish her  opportunity. 

"Five  pounds !  O  dear,  that  is  too  much  for 
me,  I'm  afraid,"  he  heard  her  say,  and,  at  the 
voice,  he  turned  and  looked  at  her.  The  voice 
was  unusual — a  rapid,  rather  husky  voice  that 
made  him  think  of  muffled  bells  or  snow-bound 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  89 

water,  gay  in  rhythm,  yet  marred  in  tone,  al- 
most as  though  the  speaker  had  cried  a  great 
deal.  She  was  an  unusual  figure,  too,  though 
he  could  not  have  said  why,  except  that  her 
dress  seemed  to  recall  bygone  fashions  quaintly, 
though  without  a  hint  of  dowdiness  or  affecta- 
tion. She  wore  a  skirt  and  jacket  of  soft  gray, 
with  pleated  lawn  at  neck  and  wrists,  and  her*1 
small  gray  hat  was  wreathed  with  violets.  She 
held  the  lacquer  box,  and  her  face,  rosy,  crisp, 
decisive,  and  showing,  like  her  voice,  a  marred 
gaiety,  expressed  her  reluctant  relinquishment 
and  her  strong  desire.  Owen  had  seen  a  child 
look  at  a  forbidden  fruit  with  just  such  an  ex- 
pression and  he  suddenly  wished  that  he  could 
give  the  box  to  her  rather  than  to  Gwendolen, 
to  whom  five  pounds  was  a  matter  of  small 
moment. 

"I  think  I  mustn't,"  she  repeated,  after  a 
further  hesitation,  and  setting  the  box  down 
with  cherishing  care.  "Not  to-day.  And  I 
have  so  much  red  lacquer.  It's  like  dram- 
drinking." 

Mr.  Glazebrook  smiled  affably.  He  was 
evidently  on  old-established  terms  with  his 
customer.  "Perhaps  you'd  like  to  look  round 
a  bit,  Mrs.  Waterlow,"  he  suggested.  "There 
are  some  nice  pieces  of  old  glass  in  the  inner 


90  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

room,  quite  cheap,  some  of  them — a  set  of  old 
champagne  glasses."  Mrs.  Waterlow,  saying 
that  she  wanted  some  old  champagne  glasses, 
moved  away. 

"Do  you  think  the  lady  has  given  up  that 
box?"  Owen  asked.  "I  don't  want  to  buy  it 
if  there's  a  chance  of  her  changing  her  mind." 

Mr.  Glazebrook  said  that  there  was  no  such 
chance,  the  lady  being  one  who  knew  her  own 
mind ;  so  the  box  was  bought  and  Owen  ordered 
it  to  be  sent  to  Gwendolen.  He  said  then  that 
he  would  like  to  have  a  look  round,  too.  He 
really  wanted  to  have  another  look  at  the  lady 
with  the  rosy  face  and  the  small  gray  hat 
trimmed  with  violets.  He  peered  into  cabinets 
ranged  thickly  with  old  glass  and  china,  ex- 
amined the  Worcester  tea-set  disposed  upon  a 
table  and  the  case  of  Chinese  tear-bottles  and 
Japanese  netzukes,  and  presently  made  his  way 
into  the  smaller,  dimmer  room  at  the  back. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Glazebrook,"  said  the  lady  in  gray. 
She  frad  heard  his  step,  but  had  not  turned. 
She  was  kneeling  before  an  open  packing-case 
and  holding  an  object  that  she  had  drawn  from 
it.  Owen  suddenly  recognised  the  case.  It 
was  the  one  that  Gwendolen  yesterday  had  sent 
down  to  Mr.  Glazebrook.  He  called  this  per- 
son, raising  his  hat,  and  the  lady  looked  round 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  91 

at  him,  too  preoccupied  to  express  her  recog- 
nition of  her  mistake  by  more  than  a  vague  mur- 
mur of  thanks.  "Mr.  Glazebrook,"  she  said, 
holding  up  a  whitish  object,  "may  I  have  this? 
Is  it  expensive?" 

"Well,  really,  I  only  glanced  over  the  box.  A 
customer  sent  it  down  to  me  to  dispose  of,  and  I 
didn't  think  there  was  anything  in  it  worth 
much.  Let  me  see,  Mrs.  Waterlow;  it's  a 
pagoda,  I  take  it,  a  Chinese  pagoda.  We've 
had  them  from  time  to  time,  in  ivory  and 
smaller  than  this." 

"This  is  in  porcelain,"  said  the  lady,  "and 
beautifully  moulded." 

"I  see,  I  see,"  said  Mr.  Glazebrook,  taking 
the  fragile  top  segment  of  the  disjointed  pa- 
goda in  his  hand,  and  rather  at  a  loss ;  "and  it's 
slightly  damaged." 

The  lady  in  gray  evidently  was  not  a  shrewd 
bargainer.  "Only  a  little,"  she  said.  "One  or 
two  bits  have  been  chipped  out  of  the  roofs, 
and  it's  lost  one  or  two  of  its  little  crystal 
rings;  but  I  think  it's  in  quite  good  condition, 
and  I  have  it  all  here."  She  was  placing  one 
segment  upon  the  other.  "They  are  all  made 
to  fit,  you  see,  with  the  little  openings  in  each 
story." 

She  had  built  it  up  beside  her  as  she  knelt 


92  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

on  the  floor,  and  it  stood  like  a  fragile,  fantastic 
ghost,  with  the  upward  tilt  of  its  tiled  roofs, 
its  embossed  patterns,  and  the  crystal  rings 
trembling  from  each  angle  of  the  roofs  like 
raindrops.  "What  a  darling!"  said  Mrs. 
Waterlow.  "How  much  do  you  ask  for  it, 
Mr.  Glazebrook?" 

Mr.  Glazebrook,  adjusting  his  knowledge  of 
the  limitations  of  Mrs.  Waterlow's  purse  to 
his  present  appreciation  of  the  pagoda  and  of 
her  desire  for  it,  said  genially,  after  a  moment, 
that  from  an  old  customer  like  herself  he  would 
ask  only  forty-five  shillings. 

"Well,  I  think  it's  a  great  bargain,  Mr. 
Glazebrook,"  said  Mrs.  Waterlow.  "And  I'll 
have  it." 

"Shall  I  send  it  round?"  Mr.  Glazebrook 
asked. 

"Yes,  please;  or,  no,  it  isn't  heavy," — she 
lifted  it  with  both  hands,  rising  with  it  and 
looking  like  a  Saint  Barbara  holding  her 
tower, — "I  can  manage  it  to  just  round  the 
corner.  Wrap  it  up  for  me,  and  I'll  carry  it 
off  myself." 

When  Owen  saw  his  cousin  again  at  lunch, 
the  red  lacquer  box  had  not  yet  arrived,  and, 
with  a  touch  of  friendly  mockery,  he  said: 

"Well,   you   have  been  unlucky,   my   dear 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  93 

Gwen.  There  was  the  most  charming  piece  of 
old  Chinese  porcelain  in  that  scorned  Chelten- 
ham box,  and  I  saw  Mr.  Glazebrook  sell  it  this 
morning  to  a  lady  who  wasn't  to  be  put  off  by 
dust  and  newspapers  and  plush-framed  plaques. 
She  carried  it  off  in  triumph,  saying  that  it  was 
a  great  bargain.  And  so  it  was ;  but  she  might 
have  had  it  for  half  the  money  if  she  hadn't 
informed  Mr.  Glazebrook  of  its  probable 
value." 

Gwendolen  fixed  her  mild,  violet  eyes  upon 
him.  "A  piece  of  old  Chinese  porcelain?  Do 
you  mean  that  silly  white  pagoda?" 

"You  did  see  it,  then?" 

"See  it?  Haven't  I  seen  it  all  my  life?  It 
stood  on  a  purple  worsted  mat  on  a  little  bam- 
boo table  between  the  Nottingham  lace  curtains 
in  one  of  Aunt  Pickthorne's  drawing-room  win- 
dows, and  looked  like  some  piece  of  childish 
gimcrackery  bought  at  a  bazaar,  where,  I'll 
wager,  she  did  buy  it." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Waterlow  evidently  didn't  think 
it  gimcrackery,  or,  if  she  did,  she  didn't  mind. 
It  looked  to  me,  I  confess,  an  exquisite  thing. 
But  her  admiration  may  have  lent  it  its  en- 
chantment." 

Gwendolen's  eyes  now  fixed  themselves  more 
searchingly  than  before. 


94  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

"Mrs.  Waterlow?  Did  Mrs.  Waterlow  buy 
it?  How  did  you  know  it  was  Mrs.  Water- 
low  ?  I  thought  you'd  never  met  her." 

"I  haven't;  but  I  heard  Mr.  Glazebrook  call 
her  by  her  name.  She'd  wanted  to  buy  a  red 
lacquer  box  that  I  spotted  in  the  window  and 
had  gone  in  to  get  for  you,  my  dear  Gwen.  It 
was  too  expensive  for  her, — so  that  it  is  yours, 
— and  she  went  rummaging  into  the  back  shop 
and  found  your  box  with  the  things  just  as 
you  and  Mr.  Glazebrook  had  left  them,  and  in 
no  time  she'd  disinterred  the  pagoda." 

Gwendolen  apparently  was  so  arrested  by  his 
story  that  she  forgot  for  the  moment  to  thank 
him  for  the  lacquer  box. 

"Do  you  know  her?"  he  asked. 

"Know  her?  Know  Cicely  Waterlow? 
Why,  I've  known  her  since  she  first  came  to 
live  here,  years  ago.  She's  a  very  dear  friend 
of  mine,"  Gwendolen  said,  adding:  "How 
much  did  she  pay  for  it?  That  wretched 
man  gave  me  only  fifteen  shillings  for  the  lot." 

"He  made  her  pay  forty-five  shillings  for 
the  pagoda.  I  suspect  myself  that  it's  worth 
ten  times  as  much.  Does  she  care  for  things, 
too — lacquer  and  engraved  glass?" 

Gwendolen  still  showed  preoccupation  and, 
he  fancied,  a  touch  of  vexation. 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  95 

"Care  for  them?  Yes;  who  with  any  taste 
doesn't  care  for  them?  Cicely  has  very  good 
taste,  too,  in  her  little  way.  She  doesn't  know 
anything,  but  she  picks  up  ideas  and  puts  them 
together  very  cleverly.  I  can't  help  thinking 
that  she'd  never  have  given  the  pagoda  a 
thought  if  my  white  porcelain  hadn't  educated 
her.  I  really  can't  believe  that  it's  good, 
Owen." 

Owen  waived  the  point. 

"Who  is  Mr.  Waterlow?"  he  asked. 

"He  has  been  dead  for  fifteen  or  sixteen 
years.  He  died  only  a  year  after  their  mar- 
riage. A  very  delightful  man,  so  people  say 
who  knew  him.  And  Cicely  lost  her  little  girl, 
to  whom  she  was  passionately  devoted,  five 
years  ago ;  she  has  never  really  recovered  from 
that.  She  used  to  be  so  pretty,  poor  Cicely! 
She's  lost  it  all  now.  She  cried  her  very  eyes 
out.  She  has  a  little  money  and  lives  with  her 
mother-in-law,  old  Mrs.  Waterlow,  who  is  very 
fond  of  her.  They  don't  entertain  except  in 
the  quietest  way,  or  go  out  much,  and  I  do 
what  I  can  to  give  Cicely  a  good  time.  I  often 
have  her  here  to  tea  when  I  have  interesting 
people  staying." 

"Oh,  that's  good.  Do  count  me  as  inter- 
esting enough  and  ask  her  while  I'm  here." 


96  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

"Interesting  enough,  my  dear  Owen!  I 
don't  suppose  that  Cicely  often  has  a  chance 
of  meeting  such  an  interesting  man  as  you.  Of 
course  I'll  ask  her,"  said  Gwendolen.  Then, 
remembering  his  gift :  "It  was  nice  of  you  to 
get  me  a  red  lacquer  box,  Owen.  I  adore  red 
lacquer,  and  I'm  quite  sure,  whatever  you  and 
Cicely  Waterlow  may  say,  that  it's  worth  a 
hundred  of  your  white  pagodas." 

Mrs.  Waterlow  came  to  tea  next  afternoon, 
the  last  of  Owen's  stay.  The  drawing-room 
was  crowded,  and  Owen,  when  she  was  an- 
nounced, was  enjoying  a  talk  with  a  dismal- 
looking  old  philosopher  who  had  plaintive, 
white  hairs  on  his  nose  and  trousers  that  bagged 
irremediably  at  the  knees. 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  know  her  well,"  said  Profes- 
sor Selden,  as  Owen  questioned  him.  "I  play 
chess  with  her  once  a  week.  Her  little  girl  was 
a  great  pet  of  mine.  You  never  saw  the  little 
girl?" 

"Never,  and  I've  not  yet  met  Mrs.  Water- 
low.  She  is  most  charming-looking." 

"The  little  girl  was  so  much  like  her,"  said 
Professor  Selden,  sadly.  "Yes,  she  is  a  charm- 
ing woman.  Don't  let  me  keep  you  from  meet- 
ing her.  I  am  going  to  sit  down  here  while 
our  young  friend  Dawkins  plays.  You  know 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  97 

Dawkins?  Between  ourselves,  Mrs.  Conyers 
thinks  too  highly  of  him." 

Mrs.  Waterlow's  eyes  turned  upon  him  as 
he  limped  up  to  her  and  Gwendolen,  and  smil- 
ing, she  said,  "Why,  I  saw  you  yesterday  in 
Mr.  Glazebrook's  shop." 

"Yes,"  said  Owen,  "and  there  is  the  red 
lacquer  box." 

"And  you,  Cicely,  bought  my  pagoda,"  said 
Gwendolen. 

"Your  pagoda  ?"  Mrs.  Waterlow  questioned, 
her  eyes,  that  seemed  to  open  with  a  little  diffi- 
culty, resting  on  her  hostess  with  some  surprise. 
"Was  the  pagoda  yours?" 

"Yes,  mine,"  said  Gwendolen.  "It  came  in 
a  box  of  rubbish, — you  saw  the  kind  of  rub- 
bish,— a  legacy  from  an  old  aunt,  and  I  bundled 
it  off  to  Glazebrook.  Owen  says  it  is  really 
good.  Is  it?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Water- 
low. 

"I'm  sure  it  is,"  said  Owen,  "and  I  liked 
the  accuracy  with  which  you  fell -in  love  with  it 
at  first  sight." 

"I  did  fall  in  love  with  it,  good  or  bad,"  said 
Mrs.  Waterlow.  "Don't  tell  me  that  you  want 
it  back  again,  Gwendolen.  But  if  it  was  a 
mistake,  of  course " 

7 


98  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

He  recognised  in  her  the  note  of  guileless- 
ness  and,  with  some  decision,  for  he  actually 
perceived  an  eagerness  in  Gwendolen's  glance, 
interposed  with,  "But  Gwendolen  thinks  it 
gimcrackery,  and  wouldn't  have  it  at  any  price. 
Isn't  it  so,  Gwendolen?" 

Poor  Gwendolen  was  looking  a  little  glum; 
but  she  was  the  most  unresentful  of  creatures. 

"Indeed,  it  is,"  she  said.  "I  did  think  it  gim- 
crackery; but,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  never  really 
saw  it  at  all.  I  can't  believe  you'd  have  seen 
it,  Cicely,  standing  on  its  worsted  mat  in  my 
Aunt  Pickthorne's  drawing-room.  But  I 
wouldn't  dream,  of  course,  of  taking  it  back; 
and  if  it's  really  good,  I'm  more  glad  than  I 
can  say  that  my  loss  should  be  your  gain. 
Now,  won't  you  and  Owen  sit  down  here  and 
listen  to  my  wonderful  Perceval  Dawkins  ?  Oh, 
he  is  going  to  astonish  the  world  some  day." 

Mrs.  Waterlow  and  Owen,  in  the  intervals  of 
the  ensuing  music,  talked  together.  Seen  more 
closely,  he  found  that  her  face,  though  not  beau- 
tiful, was  even  more  singularly  delightful  than 
he  had  thought  it.  She  had  eyes  merry,  yet 
tired,  like  those  of  a  sleepy  child,  and  sweet, 
small,  firm  lips  and  a  glance  and  smile  at  once 
very  frank  and  very  remote.  There  was  about 
her  none  of  that  aroma  of  sorrow  that  some 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  99 

women  distil  from  the  tragedies  of  their  lives, 
and  wear,  even  if  unconsciously,  like  an  allure- 
ment. He  felt  that  in  Mrs.  Waterlow  sorrow 
had  been  an  isolating,  a  bewildering,  a  devas- 
tating experience,  making  her  at  once  more 
ready  to  take  refuge  in  the  trivialities  of  life 
and  more  unable  to  admit  an  intimacy  into  the 
essentials.  Yet  the  spring  of  vitality  and  mirth 
was  so  strong  in  her  that  in  all  she  said  he  felt 
a  quality  restorative,  aromatic,  fragrant,  as  if 
he  were  walking  in  spring  woods  and  smelt 
everywhere  the  rising  sap  and  the  breath  of  vio- 
lets. She  was  remote,  blighted,  yet  buoyant. 
When  she  rose  to  go,  he  realised  with  sudden 
dismay  that  to-day  was  his  last  in  Chislebridge 
and  that  he  should  not  see  her  again  for  who 
knew  how  long. 

"Is  the  pagoda  placed  ?"  he  asked  her.  "Does 
it  fulfil  your  expectations  ?" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  said.  "I  spent  two  hours 
yesterday  in  washing  and  mending  it.  It  is 
immaculate  now,  as  lovely  as  a  pearl." 

"I  wish  I  could  see  it,"  said  Owen. 

"Why,  pray,  then,  come  and  see  it.  Can 
you  come  to  tea  with  me  and  my  mother-in-law 
to-morrow  ?" 

"I'm  going  away  to-morrow,"  said  Owen, 
dismally.  And  then  he  bethought  him.  "Can't 


ioo          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

I  walk  back  with  you  now?  Is  it  too  late? 
Only  five-thirty." 

"Not  in  the  least  too  late.  Mamma  will  still 
be  having  tea,  and  she  loves  people  to  drop  in. 
But  ought  you  to  come  away?"  Mrs.  Water- 
low  glanced  round  the  crowded  room. 

"I'll  not  be  missed,"  he  assured  her  with  some 
conscious  speciousness. 

Gwendolen,  indeed,  had  time  only  for  a  little 
stare  of  surprise  when  he  told  her  that  he  was 
going  to  look  at  the  pagoda  with  Mrs.  Water- 
low.  She  was  receiving  new  guests,  richly 
furred  and  motor-veiled  ladies  who  had  come  in 
from  the  country  and  were  expatiating  over  the 
beauties  of  the  red  lacquer  cabinets,  Gwen- 
dolen's latest  acquisitions. 

"That  will  be  delightful,"  she  said;  "and 
now  Owen  will  see  that  sweet  drawing-room 
of  yours,  dearest.  You  have  made  it  so 
pretty !" 

Owen  observed  that  Mrs.  Waterlow,  while 
maintaining  all  the  suavities  of  intercourse,  did 
not  address  Gwendolen  as  dearest. 

It  was  not  far  to  Mrs.  Waterlow's,  and  he 
said,  in  reply  to  her  question,  that  he  liked 
walking,  if  she  didn't  mind  going  slowly  on  his 
account.  He  found  himself  telling  her,  then, 
about  his  lameness.  A  bad  fall  while  skating 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  101 

in  boyhood  had  handicapped  him  for  life.  The 
lamps  had  just  been  lighted  and  the  evening 
of  early  spring  was  blurred  with  mist.  Cat- 
kins hung  against  a  faintly  rosy  sky,  and  in 
the  gardens  that  they  passed  the  crocuses  stood 
thickly.  Owen  had  a  sense  of  adventure  poig- 
nant in  its  reminiscent  magic.  Not  for  years 
had  he  so  felt  the  savour  of  youth.  He  realised, 
with  a  deep  happiness,  that  Mrs.  Waterlow 
liked  him;  sometimes  she  laughed  at  things  he 
said,  and  once  or  twice  when  her  eyes  turned  on 
him  he  fancied  in  them  the  same  expression  of 
happy  discovery  with  which  she  had  looked  at 
the  pagoda.  Well,  he  reflected,  if  she  thought 
him  delightful,  too,  she  had  had  to  get 
through  a  great  many  dusty  newspapers  to  find 
him. 

Mrs.  Waterlow  lived,  away  from  the 
gardened  houses  of  Chislebridge,  in  a  small  but 
rather  stately  house  with  a  Georgian  fagade 
which  stood  on  one  of  the  narrower,  older 
streets.  They  went  up  two  or  three  stone  steps 
from  the  pavement  and  knocked  at  a  very  bright 
and  massive  knocker,  and  the  door  was  opened 
by  a  middle-aged  Quakerish  maid.  The  draw- 
ing-room was  on  the  ground  floor,  and  Mrs. 
Waterlow  led  him  in. 

Owen's    astonishment,    when    he    entered, 


102          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

prompted  him  to  stand  still  and  to  gaze  about 
him;  but  luckily  he  could  not  yield  to  the  im- 
pulse, for  he  had  to  cross  to  the  fire,  near  which, 
behind  her  tea-table,  old  Mrs.  Waterlow  sat, 
and  had  to  be  presented  to  her  and  to  the  middle- 
aged,  academic-looking  lady  who  was  having 
tea  with  her.  He  was  glad  of  the  respite,  for 
he  had  received  a  shock. 

Old  Mrs.  Waterlow  had  dark,  authoritative 
eyes  and  white  hair  much  dressed  under  black 
lace,  and  the  finest  of  hands,  decorated  with 
old  seals  and  old  diamonds.  She  must,  he  felt, 
be  a  companion  at  once  inspiriting  and  disquiet- 
ing, for  she  had  the  demeanour  of  a  naughty, 
haughty  child,  and,  as  she  held  Owen  in  talk 
for  some  moments,  he  perceived  that  her  con- 
versation was  of  a  sort  to  cause  alarm  and 
amusement  in  her  listeners.  Poor  old  Profes- 
sor Selden,  who  was  mentioned,  offered  her  an 
opportunity  for  the  frankest  witticisms,  and, — 
when  her  daughter-in-law  protested, — "Yes, 
dear,  I  know  you  are  fond  of  him,"  the  old  lady 
replied,  "and  so  am  I;  but  he  is,  all  the  same, 
very  like  a  damp  potato  that  has  begun  to 
sprout." 

"Now  look  at  my  pagoda,  Mr.  Stacpole,"  said 
young  Mrs.  Waterlow,  laughing,  yet,  he  saw, 
not  pleased,  and  turning  from  the  fire  where 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  103 

she  had  been  standing  with  her  foot  on  the 
fender. 

"Does  Mr.  Stacpole  care  for  bric-a-brac, 
too?"  old  Mrs.  Waterlow  inquired.  "Cicely 
came  home  with  this  last  treasure  in  as  much 
triumph  as  if  some  one  had  left  her  a  fortune. 
I  resent  the  pagoda  because  it  means  that  she 
will  go  without  a  spring  hat.  She  is  always 
coming  home  in  triumph  and  always  doing 
without  hats;  and  I  sit  here  without  an  atom 
of  taste,  and  get  the  credit  for  hers.  Frankly, 
Sybilla,  my  dear,"  she  addressed  the  academic 
lady,  "I'd  be  quite  content  to  sit  upon  red  reps 
and  to  cover  my  tea-pot  with  a  pink  satin  cosy 
with  apple-blossoms  painted  on  it.  I  had  such 
a  cosy  given  to  me  this  Christmas;  but  Cicely 
wouldn't  let  me  use  it." 

Owen  had  risen  to  face  his  ordeal.  Mrs. 
Waterlow,  he  had  seen  it  in  the  first  astonished 
glance,  had,  like  everybody  else  in  Chislebridge, 
been  imitating  Gwendolen,  and  his  whole  con- 
ception of  her  was  undergoing  a  reconstruction. 
He  followed  her  to  the  table  on  which  the  white 
pagoda  stood,  glancing  about  him  and  taking 
in  deep  drafts  of  disillusion.  Red  lacquer  and 
Japanese  prints,  white  porcelain  and  dimly 
shining  jars  of  old  Venetian  glass — it  was  a 
replica,  even  to  its  white  walls,  of  Gwendolen's 


104  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

drawing-room,  but  hushed  and  saddened,  as  it 
were,  humbly  smiling,  with  folded  hands  and 
no  attempt  at  emulation.  And  in  the  midst, 
beautifully  in  place  on  its  little  black  lacquer 
table,  was  the  pagoda,  offering  him  not  a  hint 
of  help,  but  seeming  rather,  to  smile  at  him  with 
a  fantastic  and  malicious  mirth.  He  was 
aware,  as  from  the  pagoda  he  brought  his  eyes 
back  to  young  Mrs.  Waterlow,  that  he  was 
dreadfully  sorry.  In  another  woman  he  would 
not  have  given  the  naive  derivativeness  a 
thought;  but  in  her,  whom  he  had  felt  so  full 
of  savour  and  independence?  One  thing  only 
helped  him,  beside  the  effortless  atmosphere  of 
the  room,  and  that  was  the  fact — he  clung  to 
it — that  the  glasses  set  everywhere  among  the 
red  and  black  and  white  were  filled  not,  thank 
goodness!  with  pink  roses,  but  with  poppy 
anemones,  white  and  purple  and  rose.  And 
the  first  thing  he  found  to  say  of  the  pagoda 
to  Mrs.  Waterlow  was,  "It  looks  lovely  in 
here,"  and  then,  turning  to  the  nearest  bowl  of 
delicate  colour,  he  added,  "and  how  beautifully 
these  flowers  go  with  your  room !" 

He  wondered,  as  their  eyes  met  over  the 
anemones,  whether  Mrs.  Waterlow  guessed  his 
discomfiture. 

When  he  saw  Gwendolen  that  evening  she 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  105 

asked  him  at  once  whether  he  liked  old  Mrs. 
Waterlow.  She  did  not  ask  him  how  he  liked 
young  Mrs.  Waterlow's  drawing-room,  and  he 
reflected  that  this  was  really  very  magnanimous 
of  her. 

"She  seems  a  witty  old  lady,"  he  said.  "Her 
daughter-in-law  can't  be  dull  with  her." 

"She's  witty,  but  I  always  feel  her  a  little 
spiteful,  too,"  said  Gwendolen.  "We  never  get 
on,  she  and  I.  I  hate  hearing  my  neighbours 
scored  off,  and  she  has  such  an  eye  for  people's 
foibles.  I  don't  think  that  Cicely  always  quite 
likes  it,  either;  but  they  are  devoted  to  each 
other.  If  it  weren't  for  old  Mrs.  Waterlow, 
I'd  try  to  see  a  great  deal  more  of  Cicely;  I'm 
really  fond  of  her." 

•  •••••• 

HE  did  not  go  to  Chislebridge  for  another  six 
months.  Gwendolen  asked  him  very  pressingly 
on  various  occasions,  but  twice  he  was  engaged 
and  once  ill  and  too  depressed  and  jaded  to 
make  the  effort.  It  was  the  time  of  all  others 
when  Gwendolen  and  her  ministrations  would 
have  been  most  acceptable,  but  he  shrank  from 
submitting  himself  to  their  influences,  feeling 
that  in  his  very  need  he  might  find  too  great  a 
compulsion.  The  thought  of  Gwendolen  and  of 
her  possible  place  in  his  life  must  be  adjourned 


106          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

— adjourned  until  she  was  well  out  of  her 
mourning  and  he  was  able  to  meet  it  more  im- 
partially. 

He  saw  Gwendolen  in  London  and  gave  her 
and  her  boys  tea  at  his  rooms,  the  dingily  com- 
fortable rooms  near  Manchester  Square  from 
which  for  many  years  he  had  not  had  the  ini- 
tiative to  move.  There  was  more  potency,  he 
found,  in  the  imaginary  Gwendolen  than  in  the 
real  one.  The  sight  of  her  brought  back  viv- 
idly the  thought  of  Mrs.  Waterlow.  Curiously, 
they  seemed  to  have  spoiled  each  other.  Gwen- 
dolen had  all  the  ethical  advantages  and  even, 
if  it  came  to  that,  all  the  aesthetic  ones ;  yet,  am- 
biguous as  the  image  of  the  other  had  become, 
its  charm  challenged  Gwendolen's  virtues  and 
Gwendolen's  achievements.  He  even  felt  that 
he  could  be  sure  of  nothing  until  he  next  stayed 
with  Gwendolen,  when  he  must  see  Mrs.  Water- 
low  and  weigh  the  possible  friendship  with  her, 
tarnished  though  it  were,  against  the  comfort- 
able solutions  that  Gwendolen  held  out  to  him. 
Again,  curiously,  he  knew  that  the  two  could 
not  be  combined. 

Gwendolen,  however,  was  gone  away  to  the 
south  of  France  when  he  wrote  to  her  in  No- 
vember and  asked  if  he  might  stop  a  day  and 
night  on  his  way  through  Chislebridge  to  a 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  107 

country  week-end.  But  he  had  a  two-hours' 
wait  at  the  station,  and  he  suddenly  determined, 
when  he  found  himself  on  the  platform,  to  go 
and  have  tea  with  Mrs.  Waterlow. 

He  drove  up  to  the  peaceful  street  where, 
above  the  college  wall  that  ran  along  its  upper 
end,  a  close  tracery  of  branches  showed  against 
the  sky,  and  he  found  that  a  welcoming  firelight 
shone  in  the  spacious  windows  of  the  Georgian 
house.  His  dismay,  therefore,  was  the  more 
untempered  when  the  mildly  austere  maid  told 
him  that  Mrs.  Waterlow  was  away.  His 
pause  there  on  the  threshold  expressed  his 
condition,  and  the  maid  suggested  that  he  might 
care  to  come  in  and  see  old  Mrs.  Waterlow. 
This,  he  felt,  was  indeed  better  than  not  to  go 
in  at  all.  So  he  was  led  for  a  second  time  into 
the  drawing-room. 

He  had  been  obliged  on  the  former  visit  to 
conceal  astonishment ;  but  now  he  found  himself 
alone,  and  no  concealment  was  needed.  And 
the  former  astonishment  was  slight  compared 
with  this  one.  He  felt  almost  giddy  as  he 
gazed  about  him.  Nothing  was  the  same. 
Everything  was  fantastically,  incredibly  differ- 
ent, except — his  eye  caught  it  with  a  sharpened 
pang  of  wonder — the  white  pagoda;  for  there, 
in  the  centre  of  the  room,  upon  a  round,  ma- 


io8          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

hogany  table,  with  heavily  bowed  and  richly 
carven  legs,  the  white  pagoda  stood,  and  under 
it  an  old  bead  mat, — a  mat  of  faded,  old  blue 
beads, — his  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  pagoda 
and  its  setting, — of  white  and  gray  and  blue 
beads  dotted  with  pink  rosebuds.  At  regular 
intervals,  raying  out  from  the  centre,  books 
were  placed  upon  the  table — small,  sober  books 
bound  in  calf. 

So  the  pagoda  stood,  the  pivot  of  an  incred- 
ible room;  yet,  inconceivable  as  it  seemed,  as 
right  there,  all  its  exquisite  absurdity  revealed, 
as  it  had  been  right  in  the  other.  It  was  the 
one  link  that  joined  them,  the  one  thread  in  the 
labyrinth  of  his  astonishment;  and  it  seemed, 
with  its  ambiguous,  fantastic  smile,  to  sym- 
bolize its  absent  owner.  Was  it  an  exquisite, 
extravagant,  elaborate  joke  that  ehe  and  the 
pagoda  were  having  together  ? 

For  the  whole  room  was  now  a  joke.  It 
was  furnished  with  a  suite  of  black  satin — 
sofas,  easy-chairs,  little  chairs  with  carved,  ex- 
cruciating backs,  all  densely  buttoned  and 
richly  fringed.  Over  the  backs  of  the  easy- 
chairs  were  laid  antimacassars  of  finely  cro- 
cheted white  lace.  Upon  two  tall  pieces  of 
mahogany,  ranged  up  and  down  with  knobbed 
drawers  and  recalling  in  their  decorous  solidity 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  109 

the  buttoned  bodices  of  mid- Victorian  matrons, 
stood  high-handled,  white  marble  urns.  An 
oval  gilt  mirror  hung  above  the  mantelpiece, 
and  upon  it  stood  two  lustres  ringed  with  prisms 
of  glass  and  a  little  clock  of  gilt  and  marble, 
ornamented  with  two  marble  doves  hovering 
over  a  gilt  nest  wherein  lay  marble  eggs.  Be- 
tween the  clock  and  the  lustres,  on  either  side, 
was  a  vase  of  Bohemian  glass,  each  holding  a 
small  nosegay  of  red  and  white  roses.  Ma- 
hogany footstools  with  bead-worked  tops  stood 
before  the  fire,  and  upon  the  walls  hung,  ex- 
quisite in  their  absurdity,  like  the  pagoda,  a 
whole  botanical  series  of  flat,  feeble  old  flower- 
pieces,  neatly  coloured  drawings,  as  accurate 
and  as  lifeless  as  vigilant,  uninspired  labour 
could  make  them. 

No,  it  was  a  dream,  an  insane,  delightful 
dream;  for,  with  it  all,  above  it  all,  how  and 
why  he  could  not  say,  the  room  was  delightful. 
It  seemed  to  set  one  free  from  some  burden 
of  appreciation  that  all  unconsciously  one  had 
been  carrying  and  had  been  finding  heavy. 
One  could  live  in  it,  laughing  at  and  with  it. 
For  it  all  laughed — surely  yes;  and  the  elfish 
chorus  was  led  by  the  white  pagoda,  standing 
like  a  Chinese  Pierrot,  at  the  centre  of  the 
revels. 


no          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

Old  Mrs.  Waterlow  at  last  came  sailing  in, 
and  her  black  lace  shawl  and  lace-draped  head 
looked  as  appropriate  in  the  room  as  everything 
else  seemed  to  do.  Her  eyes  dwelt  on  him  with 
a  certain  fixity,  and  in  them  he  seemed  to  read 
further  significances.  They  held  an  intention, 
gay,  precise,  such  as  he  had  felt  in  the  room; 
and  they  held,  too,  it  might  be,  a  touch  of 
light-hearted  cruelty. 

"Yes,  isn't  it  changed?"  she  said,  and  he 
knew  that  his  state  of  astonishment  had  spoken 
from  his  face. 

He  stared  round  him  again,  smiling. 

"It  makes  me  feel,"  he  said,  "like  the  old 
woman  in  the  nursery  rhyme  whose  skirts  were 
cut  up  to  her  knees  while  she  was  asleep.  One 
says,  'If  I  be  I/  " 

"And  I'm  the  little  dog,"  said  Mrs.  Water- 
low  ;  "but  one  who  doesn't  bark  at  you,  so  that 
you  can  be  assured  of  your  identity.  I  am 
really  more  aware  of  my  own  in  this  room  than 
in  any  I've  lived  in  for  years.  It  is  like 
one  of  the  rooms  of  my  girlhood.  Rooms 
weren't  so  important  then  as  they  are  now,  and 
the  people  who  lived  in  them,  I  sometimes  think, 
were  more  so.  It  amuses  me  nowadays,"  said 
the  old  lady  moving  to  her  tea-table  and  seating 
herself,  "to  observe  the  way  in  which  people 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  in 

are  assessed  by  their  tastes  and  their  belong- 
ings. You  say  of  some  one  that  she  is  a  dull 
or  a  disagreeable  woman,  and  the  answer  and 
rebuke  you  receive  is,  'Oh,  but  she  has  such 
wonderful  Chinese  screens!'  Sit  down  here, 
Mr.  Stacpole.  It  is  very  nice  to  see  you 
again." 

"But  tell  me,  where  is  the  other  room?" 
Owen  asked,  drawing  his  chair  to  the  table, 
"Is  it  disbanded,  dissolved,  gone  for  ever?" 

Mrs.  Waterlow  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of 
half-malicious  mystery. 

"That  is  a  secret,  my  own  little  secret,  just 
as  this  room  is,  in  a  way,  a  little  joke  which,  for 
my  sake,  Cicely  has  made  for  me.  It  was  fin- 
ished last  week,  by  the  way,  and  you  are  the 
first  person  to  see  it.  Your  cousin  is  in  the 
south  of  France,  isn't  she?"  said  Mrs.  Water- 
low,  with  bland  inconsequence. 

"Yes;  I'm  only  passing  through.  Gwendo- 
len's been  gone  for  nearly  a  month." 

"Yes ;  I  know,"  Mrs.  Waterlow  pursued,  still 
with  the  genial  blandness.  "And  as  to  our 
little  joke,  Mr.  Stacpole,  this  room,  in  fact,  is 
in  many  ways  a  room  of  my  girlhood.  The 
furniture  was  my  mother's,  and  Cicely,  when 
the  idea  struck  her,  had  it  brought  from  the 
garret  of  my  old  home,  where  it  has  stood  in 


ii2  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

disgrace  for  many  a  year.  She  has  been  clever 
about  it,  hasn't  she  ?" 

'It's  genius,"  said  Owen.  "What  made  her 
think  of  it  ?"  And  then,  with  a  pang,  he  won- 
dered whether  Gwendolen  had  thought  of  it 
first.  Was  it  imaginable  that  Gwendolen  could 
have  turned  away  from  beauty  and  plunged 
herself  into  such  gay  austerities  of  ugliness? 

"Well,  things  are  in  the  air,  you  know,"  said 
Mrs.  Waterlow,  pouring  out.  the  tea, — "that's 
what  Cicely  always  says,  at  all  events, — re- 
actions, repulsions,  wearinesses.  This  room  is, 
she  says,  a  discipline." 

"Things  in  the  air" :  had  Gwendolen  felt  them 
first,  and  Mrs.  Waterlow  felt  them  after  her? 
This  question  of  priority  became  of  burning 
interest  for  him. 

"The  trouble  is  that  one  may  get  too  much 
of  any  discipline,"  he  commented,  "if  it  ceases 
to  be  self-inflicted  and  is  imposed  upon  us. 
How  would  your  daughter  like  it  if  all  Chisle- 
bridge  took  to  buttoned  black  satin  and  old 
flower-pieces  ?  It's  as  an  exception  that  it  has 
its  charm  and  its  meaning.  But  if  it  became 
a  commonplace?" 

"Well,  that's  the  point,"  said  old  Mrs.  Water- 
low.  "Will  it?  It  has  very  much  vexed  me 
for  years  to  watch  Chislebridge  picking  Cicely's 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  113 

brains.  And  I  said  to  her  that  I  wondered 
whether  it  would  be  possible  for  her  to  make  a 
room  that  wouldn't  be  copied,  and  she  said  that 
she  believed  she  could.  If  she  could  achieve  ug- 
liness, she  said — downright  ugliness,  she  be- 
lieved they  would  fall  back.  The  room  is  a 
sort  of  wager  between  us,  for  I  am  not  at  all 
convinced  that  she  will  succeed.  Sheep,  you 
know,  will  leap  into  the  ditch  if  they  see  their 
leader  land  there." 

Owen's  head  was  whirling.  It  was  as 
though  suddenly  the  little  crystal  rings  of  the 
pagoda  had  given  out  a  sportive,  significant 
tinkle.  This,  then,  was  what  it  meant?  It 
was  a  jest,  a  game;  but  it  was  also  a  trap. 
For  whom  ?  Chislebridge,  on  old  Mrs.  Water- 
low's  lips,  could  mean  only  Gwendolen.  He  did 
not  know  quite  what  he  hoped  or  feared,  but 
he  knew  that  he  must  conceal  from  old  Mrs. 
Waterlow  his  recognition  of  her  meaning. 

"I  felt  from  the  first  moment  that  I  saw  her 
in  the  curiosity-shop  that  Mrs.  Waterlow  was 
the  sort  of  person  who  would  always  find  the 
white  pagodas,"  he  said,  smiling  above  his 
perturbation;  "but  I  shouldn't  have  supposed 
that  Chislebridge  was  intelligent  enough,  let 
us  put  it,  to  realise  it,  too,  and  to  follow  her 
lead." 

8 


ii4          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

"It's  not  that  they  realise  it,"  the  old  lady 
interpreted,  salting  her  scone;  "it's  something 
deeper  than  realisation.  It's  instinct — the  in- 
stinct of  the  insignificant  for  aping  the  signifi- 
cant. They  would  probably  be  annoyed  if  they 
were  told  that  they  aped  Cicely.  They  hardly 
know  they  do  it,  I  will  say  that  for  them,  if 
it's  anything  to  their  credit.  And  then  since 
she  is  poor  and  they — some  of  them — rich, 
their  copies  are  seen  by  a  hundred  to  the  one 
who  sees  her  original,  and  Cicely,  to  some 
people,  I've  no  doubt  of  it,  seems  the  ape.  It 
has  very  much  vexed  me,"  Mrs.  Waterlow  re- 
peated. 

Owen,  for  all  his  loyal  feint  of  unconscious- 
ness, was  growing  rather  angry  with  Gwendo- 
len. 

"I  don't  wonder  that  it  should,"  he  said. 
"It  vexes  me  to  hear  about  it.  Has  it  gone  on 
for  long?" 

"Ever  since  we  came  to  live  here  after  my 
son's  death.  People  at  that  time  had  draped, 
crowded  drawing-rooms, — you  remember  the 
dreadful  epoch.  The  more  pots  and  pans 
and  patterns  and  palms  they  could  squeeze 
into  them,  the  better  they  were  pleased. 
Cicely  had  simple  furniture  and  quiet  spaces 
and  plain  green  wall-paper  when  no  one 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  115 

else  in  Chislebridge  had.  She  fell  in  love 
with  Japanese  prints  in  Paris  and  bought 
them  when  no  one  else  in  Chislebridge  thought 
of  doing  so. — It's  wrong,  now,  I  hear,  to 
like  them.  Chinese  paintings  are  the  cor- 
rect thing. — Chislebridge  stared  at  them  and 
at  her  empty  room,  and  wondered  how  she  could 
care  for  those  hideous  women.  They  stared 
only  for  a  year  or  two.  When  they  saw  that 
she  was  quite  indifferent  to  their  opinion  and 
intended  to  remain  in  the  difth,  they  jumped  in 
after  her.  I  was  amused  when  I  first  saw 
Japanese  prints  on  some  one  else's  green  walls 
and  heard  the  Goncourts  and  Whistler  being 
quoted  to  Cicely.  Then  by  degrees  Cicely  got 
tired  of  green  paper,  especially  since  everybody 
in  Chislebridge  by  then  had  it,  and  she  put,  with 
her  white  walls,  the  red  lacquer  and  the  glass 
and  that  beautiful  old  set  of  cane-seated  furni- 
ture that  you  saw;  and  no  one  else  in  Chisle- 
bridge at  that  time  had  white  walls  or  a  scrap 
of  lacquer.  She  shifted  and  rearranged  like  a 
bird  building  its  nest,  and  Chislebridge  stared 
again  and  said  that  the  white  walls  were  like 
a  workhouse;  and  then  they  began  to  look  for 
lacquer  and  to  put  up  white  paper.  Her  very 
grouping  has  been  copied,  the  smallest  points 
of  adjustment.  It's  not,"  Mrs.  Waterlow  pur- 


n6          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

sued,  "that  I  mind  people  imitating,  if  they  do 
it  frankly  and  own  themselves  plagiarists.  We 
must  all  see  the  things  we  like  for  the  first  time. 
But  it's  not  because  they  like  the  things  that 
they  have  them;  they  have  them  because  some 
one  else  likes  them.  They  dress  themselves  in 
other  people's  tastes  and  make  a  fine  figure  as 
originators."  The  vexation  of  years  was  crys- 
tallized in  the  lightness  and  crispness  of  her 
voice. 

Poor,  stupid  Gwendolen!  After  all,  one 
must  not  be  too  hard  on  her.  He  felt  Mrs. 
Waterlow  to  be  so  hard  that  he  reacted  to 
something  approaching  pitying  tolerance. 
Gwendolen  could  be  stupid  in  such  good  faith. 
There  was  nothing,  when  he  came  to  think  of 
it,  surprising  in  this  revelation  of  her  stupidity, 
nothing  painful,  as  there  had  been  in  suspecting 
Cicely  Waterlow  of  stupidity.  Gwendolen 
was  so  sincerely  unaware  of  having  no  ideas 
of  her  own.  He  wondered,  as  he  said  good-bye 
to  old  Mrs.  Waterlow  and  told  her  that  he  felt 
convinced  that  she  had  at  last  reached  a  haven, 
whether  she  guessed  that  she  had  made  him 
happy  rather  than  unhappy. 

She  had  made  him  so  happy,  with  his  recov- 
ered ideal,  that  as  he  drove  away  it  was  with  a 
definite  thrust  of  fear  that  he  suddenly  remem- 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  117 

bered  Gwendolen's  kindly  criticism  of  old  Mrs. 
Waterlow.  Was  it  not  possible,  after  all,  that 
she  had  been  indulging  in  sheer  malice  at  Gwen- 
dolen's expense?  Wasn't  it  possible  that 
Gwendolen  and  Cicely  Waterlow  had  had  the 
same  inspirations  independently?  But  no  two 
people  could  stumble  at  once  on  such  a  drawing- 
room  as  that  he  had  just  left.  Horrid  thought 
— what  if  Gwendolen's  drawing-room  at  this 
moment  showed  just  such  a  singular  reversion 
to  ugliness  ?  After  his  delicious  relief,  he  could 
not  bear  the  doubt. 

He  drove  to  Gwendolen's.  Yes,  the  old 
housekeeper,  who  knew  him,  said  he  could  of 
course  go  up  and  look  at  the  red  lacquer.  The 
red  lacquer!  He  could  almost  have  embraced 
her  for  the  joy  her  words  gave  him.  Gwen- 
dolen would  not  have  retained  red  lacquer  with 
a  black  satin  suite.  And  on  the  threshold  of 
Gwendolen's  drawing-room  he  received  full  re- 
assurance. The  lovely  room  was  intact.  The 
blacks  and  whites  and  reds  and  golds  were  all 
there,  unchanged,  not  a  breath  of  the  ambigu- 
ous discipline  upon  them.  And  in  the  midst  of 
them  all  it  was  not  Gwendolen,  but  Cicely  Wa- 
terlow, whom  he  seemed  to  see  smiling  upon 
him,  merry,  tired,  and  tolerant.  She  had,  as  it 
were,  demonstrated  her  claim  not  only  to  her 


n8          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

present,  but  to  her  past.  For  if  she  had  not 
copied  Gwendolen  in  the  mid- Victorian  back- 
water, why  should  she  have  copied  her  in  this  ? 
She  had  been  first  in  both,  and  in  her  back- 
.  water  she  was  now  safe. 

•  ••••*• 

MANY  months  passed  before  he  saw  Gwen- 
dolen's drawing-room  again.  He  was  felled 
early  in  the  winter  by  a  long  and  dangerous 
illness.  When  he  was  able  to  crawl  about,  he 
,went  to  the  south  of  France  and  stayed  there 
for  over  a  year.  He  was  so  ill,  so  tired,  and 
so  weak  that,  if  Gwendolen  and  the  boys  hadn't 
joined  him,  if  she  hadn't  nursed  and  amused 
and  encouraged  him  from  day  to  day,  he  felt 
that  he  should  probably  have  died  and  made  an 
end  of  it.  Gwendolen  was  more  than  kind. 
She  was  at  once  tender  and  tactful,  and  the 
only  claim  she  made  was  that  of  her  long- 
standing solicitude  on  his  account.  Upon  this, 
as  upon  a  comfortable,  impersonal  cushion  that 
she  adjusted  for  his  weary  head,  she  invited 
him  to  lean,  and  upon  it  for  months  of  dazed 
invalidism  and  dubious  convalescence  he  did 
lean.  Lapped  round  by  this  fundamental  kind- 
ness, the  flaws  and  absurdities  of  Gwendolen's 
character  disappeared.  The  long  pearl  ear- 
rings dangled  now  over  the  most  delicious 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  119 

beef-teas,  which  she  herself  made  for  him ;  the 
graceful  hands  could  perform  efficient  tasks. 
Of  how  very  little  importance  it  was  that  a 
woman  should  not  show  originality  in  her  draw- 
ing-room when  she  could  show  in  taxing  daily 
intercourse  such  wisdom  and  resource  and 
sweetness!  Life  had  contracted  about  them, 
and  on  these  simple  and  elementary  terms  he 
found  that  Gwendolen  neither  bored  nor  ruffled 
him.  When  she  at  last  left  him  he  knew  that 
the  bond  between  them,  unspoken  as  it  re- 
mained, was  stronger  than  it  had  ever  yet  been, 
and  that  when  he  next  saw  her  he  would  proba- 
bly find  it  the  most  natural  of  things  to  ask  her 
to  marry  him,  and  to  take  care  of  him  for  ever. 
Poor,  good,  kind  Gwendolen!  It  was  with  a 
pensive  humility  and  mirth  that  he  resigned 
himself  to  the  thought  of  the  bad  bargain  she 
would  make. 

He  came  back  to  England  in  the  spring  fol- 
lowing that  in  which  he  had  left  it,  and  went 
at  once  to  Chislebridge.  It  was  late  afternoon 
when  he  drove,  in  a  twilight  like  his  own  mood 
of  meditative  acceptance,  to  the  well-known 
house.  Ample  and  benignant  it  stood  behind 
its  walls  and  lawns  and  trees,  and  seemed  to 
look  upon  him  with  eyes  of  unresentful  pa- 
tience. 


120          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

He  limped  in  and  Gwendolen  met  him  in 
the  hall. 

"My  dear,  dear  Owen,  how  are  you  ?  Yes,  I 
had  your  wire  this  morning.  Good ;  I  see  that 
the  journey  has  done  you  no  harm.  But  you 
are  tired,  aren't  you  ?  Will  you  go  to  your  own 
room  or  have  tea  with  me  at  once?  It's  just 
been  brought  in." 

He  said  that  he  would  have  tea  with  her. 
She  did  not  actually  help  him  up  the  stairs,  but 
as,  with  skill  impaired,  he  swung  himself  from 
step  to  step,  the  touch  of  her  tactful  and  ready 
hand  was  upon  his  arm,  a  caress  rather  than  a 
sustainment.  Passing  the  hand  through  his 
arm,  she  led  him  into  the  drawing-room. 

Owen  looked  about  him.  He  stood  for  a 
long  moment  in  the  door  and  looked.  He  then 
allowed  himself  a  cautious,  side-long  glance  at 
Gwendolen.  Her  eyes,  unaware  in  their  bland 
complacency,  had  followed  his  and  rested  upon 
her  room. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'd  forgotten  that  you  hadn't  seen 
my  new  drawing-room,"  she  said.  "We've  had 
great  changes." 

Even  in  his  horror,  for  it  was  hardly  less,  he 
was  touched  to  realize  that  Gwendolen  was 
thinking  far  less  of  her  drawing-room  than  of 
him.  She  might  have  forgotten  that  it  had 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  121 

changed,  had  he  not  so  helplessly  displayed  his 
amazement. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  said.  He  limped  to  the 
fire  and  sank  heavily  into  the  deep,  black  satin 
easy-chair  drawn  before  it.  He  leaned  his 
elbow  on  his  knee  and  rested  his  head  on  his 
hand,  and  as  he  did  so  he  observed  that  before 
the  fire  stood  a  mahogany  footstool  with  a  bead- 
worked  top. 

"You  are  tired,  dear  Owen.  Do  you  feel 
ill  ?"  Gwendolen  hovered  above  his  chair. 

"I  do  feel  a  little  giddy,"  he  confessed.  "I'm 
not  all  right  yet,  I  see." 

He  raised  his  head.  It  was  to  face  the  man- 
telpiece, with  its  oval,  gilt  mirror  and  crystal 
lustres  and  gilt-and-marble  clock.  No,  there 
were  not  doves  and  a  nest  upon  it.  This  was  a 
finer  clock  than  the  one  with  the  doves,  and 
the  lustres  were  larger,  and  the  flowers  that 
stood  between  were  mauve  orchids.  Gwendo- 
len always  went  astray  over  her  flowers. 

"Here  is  tea,"  she  said,  seating  herself  at  a 
little  mahogany  table  with  bowed  and  decorated 
legs.  "Of  course  you're  bound  to  feel  tired, 
dear  Owen,  after  your  journey.  Tea  will  be 
the  very  thing  for  you." 

He  turned  now  a  furtive  eye  along  the  wall. 
Flower-pieces,  dim,  flat,  old  flower-pieces  and 


122  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

arid  steel-engravings  and  tall  pieces  of  mahog- 
any furniture  with  marble  vases  upon  them — 
no  mistakes  had  been  made  here,  for  if  the  vases 
were  not  urns,  they  were  of  marble  and  in  their 
places. 

"How  do  you  like  it  in  this  phase?"  Gwen- 
dolen asked  him,  tactfully  turning  from  the 
question  of  his  weakness.  "I  love  it  myself,  I 
own,  though  of  course  Chislebridge  thinks  I've 
lost  my  wits.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  Owen,  I 
was  tired  of  beauty.  One  may  come  to  that. 
One  may  feel,"  said  Gwendolen,  pouring  out 
the  tea,  "that  one  needs  a  discipline.  This 
room  is  my  discipline,  and  after  it  I  know 
that  I  shall  find  self-indulgence  almost  vul- 
gar." 

No ;  his  mind  was  working  to  and  fro  between 
the  present  and  the  past  with  the  rapidity  and 
accuracy  of  a  shuttle  threading  an  intricate  pat- 
tern— no,  he  had  never  mentioned  to  Gwendo- 
len that  late  autumnal  visit  of  his  to 
Chislebridge  eighteen  months  ago.  Had  that 
been  because  to  mention  it  and  the  transforma- 
tion he  had  been  the  first  to  witness  in  Mrs. 
Waterlow's  drawing-room  would  have  been,  in 
a  sense,  to  give  Gwendolen  a  warning?  And 
had  he  not,  in  his  deepening  affection  for  her, 
conceived  her  to  be  above  the  need  of  such 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  123 

warnings  ?  Yes ;  for  though  he  had  been  glad 
to  recover  his  ideal  of  young  Mrs.  Waterlow, 
though  he  had  been  more  than  willing  that 
Gwendolen  should  occupy  the  slightly  ridicu- 
lous and  humiliating  position  that  he  had  im- 
agined to  be  Mrs.  Waterlow's,  he  had  never 
for  a  moment  imagined  that  Gwendolen's  disin- 
genuous docility  would  go  as  far  as  this.  So 
many  people  might  love  red  lacquer  and  old 
glass  with  a  clear  conscience,  once  they  had 
been  brought  to  see  them ;  but  who,  with  a  clear 
conscience,  could  love  black  satin  furniture  and 
marble  vases? 

"It  is  a  very  singular  room,"  he  found  at 
last,  in  comment  upon  her  information.  "How 
— and  when — did  you  come  to  think  of  it?" 
He  heard  the  hollow  sound  of  his  own  voice; 
but  Gwendolen  remained  unaware.  The  fact 
)f  her  stupidity  cast  a  merciful  veil  of  pitifulness 
over  her. 

"I  hardly  know,"  she  said,  handing  him  his 
tea  and  happy  in  her  theme.  "These  things 
are  in  the  air  at  a  given  time — reactions,  repul- 
sions, wearinesses — I  think.  It  grew  bit  by 
bit;  I've  brought  it  to  this  state  only  since  my 
return  from  the  Riviera.  The  idea  came  to  me, 
oh,  long  ago — long  before  your  illness.  Alec 
Chambers  is  perfectly  entranced  with  it,  and 


124  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

vows  it  is  the  most  beautiful — yes,  beautiful — 
room  in  existence.  It  is  witty  as  well  as  beau- 
tiful, he  says,  and  he  is  going  to  paint  it  for 
the  New  English  Art  Club.  Rooms  have  a  cu- 
rious influence  upon  me,  you  know,  Owen.  I 
really  do  feel,"  said  Gwendolen  busying  herself 
hospitably  with  his  little  plate  and  hot,  buttered 
toast,  "that  I've  grown  cleverer  since  living  in 
this  one." 

Owen,  while  she  talked  and  while  he  drank 
his  tea,  had  been  more  frankly  looking  about 
him.  Flagrant  as  was  the  plagiarism,  Gwen- 
dolen, as  before,  had  protected  herself  by  a  more 
illustrious  achievement.  It  was  a  stately,  not 
a  staid  room;  it  carried  the  idea  higher,  and 
thereby  missed  it.  It  was  not  an  amusing 
room,  nor  witty,  to  any  one  who  had  seen  the 
original.  It  was  impressive,  oppressive,  almost 
forbidding.  Gwendolen,  for  one  thing,  had 
had  more  space  to  fill.  The  naivete  of  mere 
flower-pieces  would  not  furnish  her  walls,  and 
she  had  lapsed  into  sheer  ugliness  with  the 
large  and  admirably  accurate  steel-engravings. 
Caution,  too,  had  been  mistakenly  exercised 
here  and  there;  the  black  satin  furniture  had 
no  antimacassars  and  the  centre-table  no  orna- 
ment except  a  vase  of  orchids  and  calf-bound 
books. 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  125 

Owen  felt  no  indignation;  he  would  always 
remain  too  fond  of  Gwendolen,  too  tolerant  of 
her  folly,  to  feel  indignant  with  her ;  it  was  with 
a  mild  but  final  irony  that  he  brought  his  eyes 
back  at  last  to  his  unconscious  and  hapless 
cousin.  And  he  wondered  how  far  Gwendolen 
had  gone,  how  far  she  could  be  made  to  go. 
"There's  only  one  thing  that  it  lacks,"  he  said. 
"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

"Oh,  do,"  she  urged,  beaming  over  her  tea. 
"You  know  how  much  I  value  your  taste." 

"Oh,  I  haven't  much  taste,"  said  Owen,  "I've 
never  gone  in  for  having  taste.  And  doesn't 
your  room  prove  that  taste  is  a  mistake  if  in- 
dulged too  far?  It's  more  a  sense  of  literary 
fitness  I  allude  to.  Yours  is  meant  to  be  a 
soulless  room,  isn't  it  ?  That's  your  intention  ?" 

"Exactly,"  said  Gwendolen,  with  eager  ap- 
prehension; "that  is  just  it — a  soulless  room. 
One  is  sick  of  souls,  just  as  one  is  sick  of 
beauty." 

"Exactly,"  Owen  echoed  her.  "But,  since 
you  have  here  a  travesty  of  beauty,  what  you 
need  to  complete  your  idea  is  a  travesty  of  soul. 
You  need  a  centre  that  draws  it  all  into  focus. 
You  need  something  that,  alas !  you  might  have 
had,  and  have  lost  for  ever.  The  white  pa- 
goda, Gwendolen,  that  Mrs.  Waterlow  found. 


126          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

Your  room  needs  that,  and  only  that,  to  make 
it  perfect." 

He  spoke  in  his  flat,  weak  invalid's  voice,  but 
he  was  wondering,  almost  with  ardour,  if 
Gwendolen,  this  touchstone  applied,  would  sus- 
pect or  remember  and,  from  penitence  or  cau- 
tion, redeem  herself  by  a  confession.  For  a  mo- 
ment, only  a  moment,  she  looked  at  him  very 
earnestly ;  and  he  was  aware  that  he  hoped  that 
she  was  going  to  redeem  herself — hoped  it  al- 
most ardently,  not  for  his  own  sake — those 
sober  hopes  were  dead  for  ever — but  for  the 
sake  of  the  past  and  what  it  had  really  held  of 
fondness  and  sympathy  and  essential  respect. 

Gwendolen  looked  at  him  earnestly ;  it  was  as 
though  a  dim  suspicion  crossed  her;  and  then, 
poor  thing !  she  put  it  aside.  Yes,  he  was  very 
sorry  for  her  as  he  listened  to  her. 

"Owen,  that  is  clever  of  you,"  she  said,  "but 
very,  very  clever.  That  is  precisely  what  I've 
been  saying  to  myself  ever  since  the  idea  came 
to  me.  I  can't  forgive  myself  for  that  piece 
of  stupidity — my  only  one,  I  will  say,  in  regard 
to  such  recognitions  and  perceptions.  I  may 
be  a  stupid  woman  about  a  great  many  things, 
but  I'm  not  stupid  about  rooms.  The  horror 
of  Aunt  Pickthorne's  room  dulled  my  eyes  so 
that  in  all  truth  I  can  say  that  I  never  saw 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  127 

that  pagoda.  And  from  the  moment  I've  had 
my  idea  I've  moaned — but  literally  moaned — 
over  having  lost  it.  Of  course  it  is  what  the 
room  needs,  and  all  that  it  needs — the  travesty 
of  a  soul  standing  on  that  mahogany  table." 

"Yes,  the  centre-table  is  the  place  for  it," 
said  Owen. 

"It  is  clever  of  you  to  feel  it  just  as  I  do, 
Owen,  dear,"  she  went  on.  "The  pagoda  was 
meant  for  this  room  and  for  this  room  only; 
for,  you  know,  I  didn't  think  Cicely  Waterlow 
at  all  happily  inspired  in  placing  it  as  she  had." 

"As  she  had?"  He  rapped  the  question  out 
with  irrepressible  quickness. 

"Yes,  among  all  that  rather  trashy  lacquer 
and  glass  in  that  rather  gimcrackery  little 
drawing-room  of  hers.  The  pagoda  looked 
there,  what  it  had  always  looked  in  Aunt  Pick- 
thor.ne's  room — a  gimcrack  itself." 

"Looked?"  he  repeated.  "How  does  it  look 
now?  How  has  she  placed  it  now?" 

And,  for  the  first  time  in  all  their  intercourse, 
he  saw  that  Gwendolen  was  suddenly  confused. 
He  had  hardly  trapped  her.  She  had  set  the 
trap  herself,  and  inadvertently  had  walked  into 
it.  A  faint  colour  rose  to  her  cheek.  She 
dropped  for  a  moment  her  eyes  upon  the  fire. 
Then,  covering  her  self-consciousness  with  a 


128          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

show  of  smiling  vivacity,  she  knelt  to  poke  the 
logs,  saying: 

"I  don't  know,  I  really  don't  know,  Owen. 
Cicely  is  always  changing  her  room,  you  know. 
She  is  very  quick  at  feeling  what's  in  the  air — 
as  quick  as  I  am  really — and  I  haven't  seen 
her  for  ages.  She  has  gone  to  live  in  London 
— oh,  yes,  didn't  you  know?  Yes,  she  came 
into  a  little  money  over  a  year  ago,  and  she  and 
old  Mrs.  Waterlow  have  taken  a  house  in 
Chelsea,  and  are  coming  back  to  Chislebridge 
only  for  two  or  three  months  in  every  year. 
They  are  very  fond  of  Chislebridge.  So  I 
haven't  an  idea  of  what  her  drawing-room  is 
like  now." 

"Perhaps  it's  like  yours,"  Owen  suggested. 
"The  one  I  saw  was  rather  like  yours,  I  re- 
member." 

Gwendolen  opened  kind  and  repudiating  eyes. 

"Do  you  think  so,  Owen  ?  Like  mine  ?  Oh, 
only  in  one  or  two  superficial  little  things.  She 
hadn't  a  Chinese  screen  or  a  lacquer  cabinet 
or  a  piece  of  Chinese  painting  to  bless  herself 
with,  poor  little  Cicely!  No,  indeed,  Owen;  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  at  all  fair  to  say  that 
Cicely  copied  me.  These  things  are  in  the 
air." 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA          129 

BEFORE  he  left  Chislebridge  he  asked  Gwen- 
dolen for  Mrs.  Waterlow's  London  address, 
and  observed  that  she  did  not  flinch  in  giving 
it  to  him.  He  inferred  from  this  that  Mrs. 
Waterlow's  black  satin  suite  had  not  left  Chisle- 
bridge and  that  Gwendolen  knew  that  she  had 
nothing  to  fear  from  a  London  visit.  Would 
she  indeed  fear  anything  from  any  visit  ?  Her 
placid  self-deception  was  so  profound  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  draw  a  line  fairly  between 
skilful  fraud  and  instinctive  self-protection. 
Gwendolen,  without  doubt,  conceived  herself 
completely  protected.  She  would  never  suspect 
him  of  suspecting  her. 

He  felt,  when  he  got  back  to  London,  a  cer- 
tain reluctance  in  going  to  see  Mrs.  Waterlow. 
It  was  not  only  that  he  shrank  from  reading  in 
old  Mrs.  Waterlow's  malicious  eyes  the  recogni- 
tion of  his  discovery;  in  regard  to  young  Mrs. 
Waterlow  there  was  another  shrinking  that  was 
almost  one  of  shyness.  She  had  been  wronged, 
grossly  wronged,  by  some  one  to  whom  he 
must  show  the  semblance  of  loyalty,  and  the 
consciousness  of  her  wrongs  affected  him 
deeply.  A  fortnight  passed  before  he  made 
his  way  one  afternoon  to  Chelsea,  a  fortnight 
in  which  the  main  consciousness  that  filled  his 
sense  of  renewal  was  that  of  his  merciful 

9 


130  THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

escape.  Mrs.  Waterlow's  house  was  in  St. 
Leonard's  Terrace,  one  of  the  narrow,  old 
houses  that  face  the  expanse  of  the  Royal  Hos- 
pital Gardens.  The  spring  sun,  as  he  limped 
along,  was  shining  upon  their  facades — dull, 
old  brick  and  dim,  white  paint — like  slabs  of 
ancient  wedding-cake  with  frosted  edging. 

After  all  the  expense  of  his  illness,  he  was 
very  poor  in  these  days,  and  had  come  with 
difficulty  in  a  'bus.  As  he  opened  the  gate  and 
went  into  the  flagged  garden,  where  white  tu- 
lips grew,  he  glanced  up  and  saw  young  Mrs. 
Waterlow  standing  looking  out  at  the  drawing- 
room  window.  Her  eyes  met  his  in  surprise, 
they  had  not  seen  each  other  for  so  long  a 
time;  then,  as  lifting  his  hat  he  smiled  at  her, 
he  thought  he  saw  in  them  a  sudden  pity  and 
gravity.  He  did  of  course  look  so  much  more 
battered  than  when  she  had  last  seen  him. 
The  nice,  middle-aged  maid  let  him  in — he  was 
glad  of  that — and,  as  he  followed  her  up  the 
narrow  staircase,  with  its  white,  panelled  walls, 
he  wondered  which  drawing-room  it  was  to  be, 
and  felt  his  heart  sink  strangely  at  the  thought 
that  perhaps,  after  all,  Mrs.  Waterlow  had 
transplanted  her  discipline  to  London. 

But,  no;  like  a  soft  gush  of  sunlight,  like 
bells  and  clear,  running  water,  the  first  room 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  131 

greeted  him  in  a  medley  of  untraceable  associ- 
ations. It  was  the  first  room,  with  the  delicate 
cane-seated  chairs  and  settees,  the  red  lacquer 
and  the  glass,  all  looking  lovelier  than  ever 
against  the  panelled  white,  all  brighter,  sweeter, 
happier  than  in  the  rather  dim  room  on  the 
ground  floor  in  Chislebridge.  And  touches  of 
green,  like  tiny  flakes  of  vivid  flame,  went 
through  it  in  the  leaves  of  the  white  azaleas 
that  filled  the  jars  and  vases.  He  saw  it  all, 
and  he  saw,  as  Mrs.  Waterlow  came  toward 
him,  that  the  white  pagoda  stood  on  its  former 
little  black  lacquer  table  in  one  of  the  windows. 

Mrs.  Waterlow  shook  his  hand  and  her  eyes 
examined  him. 

"You  have  been  ill.  I  was  so  sorry  to  hear," 
she  said. 

"Yes,  I've  been  wretchedly  ill;  for  years  now, 
it  seems,"  he  replied. 

They  sat  down  before  the  fire.  Old  Mrs. 
Waterlow,  she  told  him,  was  away  on  a  visit  to 
Chislebridge,  from  which  she  was  to  return 
that  evening  at  six  o'clock.  It  was  only  four. 
He  had  two  hours  before  him,  and  he  felt  that 
in  them  he  was  to  be  very  happy.  They  talked 
and  talked.  He  saw  that  she  liked  him  and 
expected  him  to  stay  on  and  talk.  All  the 
magic  and  elation  and  sense  of  discovery  and 


132          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

adventure  was  with  him  as  on  their  first  en- 
counter. She  knew  him,  he  found,  so  much 
better  than  he  could  have  guessed.  She  had 
read  everything  he  had  written.  She  appre- 
ciated so  finely;  she  even,  with  a  further  ad- 
vance to  acknowledged  friendship,  criticized, 
with  the  precision  and  delicacy  expressed  in  all 
that  she  did.  And  the  fact  that  she  liked  him 
so  much,  that  she  was  already  so  much  his 
friend,  gave  him  his  right  to  let  her  see  how 
much  he  liked  her.  The  two  hours  were  not 
only  happy ;  they  were  the  happiest  he  had  ever 
known. 

The  clock  had  hardly  struck  six  when  old 
Mrs.  Waterlow's  cab  drove  up. 

"Don't  go;  mamma  will  so  like  to  see  you," 
said  Mrs.  Waterlow.  "She  so  enjoyed  that 
little  visit  you  paid  her  over  a  year  ago,  you 
know." 

This  was  the  first  reference  that  had  been 
made  to  the  visit.  He  wondered  if  she  guessed 
what  it  had  done  for  their  friendship. 

Old  Mrs.  Waterlow  came  in,  wearing  just 
such  a  delightful,  flowing  black  satin  cloak 
and  deep  black  satin  bonnet  as  he  would  have 
expected  her  to  wear.  And  seeing  him  there 
with  her  daughter-in-law,  she  paused,  as  if  ar- 
rested, on  the  threshold.  Then,  her  eyes  pass- 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  133 

ing  from  the  tea-table  and  its  intimacy  of 
grouping  with  the  two  chairs  they  had  risen 
from,  and  resting  brightly  on  her  daughter's 
face,  where  she  must  read  the  reflection  of  his 
happiness,  Owen  saw  that  she  cast  off  a  scruple, 
came  to  a  decision,  and  renewed  the  impulse 
that  had  brought  her  up  the  stairs,  he  now 
realised,  at  an  uncharacteristic  speed. 

"My  dear  Cicely,"  she  exclaimed,  after  she 
had  greeted  him,  "you've  lost  your  wager!" 

Cicely  Waterlow  gazed  at  her  for  a  moment 
and  then  she  flushed  deeply. 

"Have  I,  mamma?"  she  said,  busying  her- 
self with  the  kettle.-  "Well,  that  pleases  you, 
and  doesn't  displease  me.  You'll  want  some 
tea,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  indeed,  I  want  some  tea.  But  you'll 
not  put  me  off  with  tea,  my  dear.  I  want  to 
talk  about  my  wager,  too;  and  Mr.  Stacpole 
will  want  to  hear  about  it,  for  it  was  his  wager 
as  well.  You  did  say  that  you  felt  convinced 
that  I  was  safe  in  my  haven,  didn't  you,  Mr. 
Stacpole?  Well,  I've  lost  it,  and  I'm  not  at 
all  pleased  to  have  lost  it.  I'm  triumphant,  if 
you  will,  but  savage,  too.  You'll  forgive  me,  I 
know,  Mr.  Stacpole,  if  I'm  savage  with  your 
cousin  when  I  tell  you  that  she  has  been  in- 
spired with  a  black  satin  suite  and  mahogany 


134          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

furniture  and  bead- work  since  seeing  Cicely's 
new  drawing-room  in  Chislebridge." 

"Mamma!"  Cicely  protested.  'Two  people 
can  perfectly  well  have  the  same  idea  at  the 
same  time!  There's  no  reason  in  the  world 
why  Gwendolen  shouldn't  feel  just  my  fancy 
for  funny,  old,  ugly  things." 

"She  didn't  show  any  fancy  for  them  when 
she  saw  them  a  year  ago,  did  she,  dear?"  said 
the  intractable  old  lady,  seating  herself  at  the 
tea-table.  "She  was  very  guarded,  very  mute, 
though  very  observant.  Yes ;  people  may  have 
the  same  idea,  but  they'll  hardly  have  the  same 
black  satin  furniture  and  the  same  beaded  foot- 
stools, will  they?" 

Seeing  the  deep  embarrassment  in  which  his 
friend  was  plunged,  Owen  now  interposed. 

"Don't  try  to  defend  Gwendolen  on  my  ac- 
count," he  said.  "She  really  can't  be  defended. 
I  know  it,  for  I've  seen  her  drawing-room." 

"You  have  seen  it  ?  And  what  do  you  think 
of  it?"  asked  old  Mrs.  Waterlow. 

"I  thought,  as  I  told  her,"  said  Owen,  "that 
it  lacked  but  one  thing,  and  that  was  the  trav- 
esty of  a  soul.  It  lacked  the  white  pagoda." 

"You  told  her  that?  It  was  what  she  told 
me.  She  told  me  that  she  could  not  forgive 
herself  for  having  parted  with  the  pagoda,  for 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA  135 

it  was  the  travesty  of  a  soul  that  her  room  still 
needed.  'You  mean/  I  said,  'the  pagoda  placed 
as  Cicely  placed  it  on  the  centre-table  in  her 
new  room  ?'  She  gazed  at  me  and  laid  her  hand 
on  my  arm  and  asked:  'But,  dear  Mrs.  Wa- 
terlow,  how  had  Cicely  placed  the  pagoda?  I 
really  don't  remember.  I  really  don't  remem- 
ber at  all  what  Cicely's  new  room  was  like, 
except  that  it  was  mid-Victorian,  and  had  old 
water-colours  on  the  walls.  Surely  you  don't 
think  that  I've  copied  Cicely?' 

"  'My  dear  Mrs.  Conyers,'  I  said  to  her,  'I 
don't  think,  but  know,  that  you've  done  nothing 
else  since  you  came  to  Chislebridge.  But  in 
this  case  you  are  farther  from  success  than 
usual,  for  Cicely's  drawing-room  is  gay,  and 
yours  is  grand  serieux.'  ' 

Mrs.  Waterlow's  bomb  seemed  to  fill  the  air 
with  a  silvery  explosion,  and,  as  its  echoes  died, 
in  the  ensuing  stillness,  the  eyes  of  Cicely  and 
Owen  met  beneath  the  triumphant  gaze  of  the 
merciless  old  lady.  It  was  from  his  eyes  that 
hers  caught  the  infection.  To  remain  grave 
now  was  to  be  grand  serieux,  and  helpless 
gaiety  was  in  the  air.  Owen  broke  into  peals 
of  laughter. 

"Oh — but — "  Cicely  Waterlow  protested, 
laughing,  too,  but  still  flushed  and  almost  tear- 


136          THE  WHITE  PAGODA 

ful — "it  isn't  fair.  It's  as  if  we  had  taken  her 
in.  She  doesn't  know  she  does  it,  really  she 
doesn't;  she  is  so  well-meaning — so  kind." 

"She  knows  now,"  said  old  Mrs.  Waterlow, 
who  remained  unsmiling,  but  with  a  placidity 
full  of  satisfaction;  "and  she'll  hardly  be  able 
to  forget." 

"I'm  quite  sure,"  said  Cicely,  "that  she  really 
believes  that  she  cares  for  the  new  drawing- 
room.  People  can  persuade  themselves  so 
easily  of  new  tastes.  And  why  shouldn't  they 
have  them  ?  I  believe  that  Gwendolen  does  like 
it." 

"Yes,  she  does  indeed,'1  said  old  Mrs.  Water- 
low.  "She  says  so.  She  says  she  never  cared 
for  any  room  so  much  and  that  she  intends  to 
live  and  die  with  it.  Her  only  refuge  now  is 
to  go  on  faithfully  loving  it.  So  there  she  is, 
buttoned  into  her  black  satin  for  ever !" 


UNTIL  now  Mrs.  Conyers  has  remained  faith- 
ful, and  her  consistency  is  still  made  good  to 
her;  for  none  of  her  drawing-rooms  has 
brought  her  such  appreciation.  Chislebridge 
has  never  dared  to  emulate  it ;  Mr.  Chambers 
and  his  friends  have  often  painted  it,  and  Mrs. 
Waterlow's  original,  like  a  gay  jest,  uttered  and 


THE  WHITE  PAGODA          137 

then  gone  for  ever,  is  no  longer  in  existence 
to  vex  and  perplex  her  with  its  mocking  smile. 
Moreover,  her  own  drawing-room  no  longer 
lacks  its  travesty  of  a  soul.  Owen  married 
Cicely  Waterlow  in  the  autumn,  and  Gwen- 
dolen, magnanimous,  and  burning  her  bridges 
behind  her,  sent  them  for  their  wedding-pres- 
ent her  two  lovely  and  unique  red  lacquer  cabi- 
nets. One  stands  in  the  front,  and  one  in  the 
back  drawing-room  in  the  little  house  in  St. 
Leonard's  Terrace,  and  Cicely  said  to  Owen  on 
the  day  they  arrived  that  any  wrong  of  the 
past,  if  wrong  there  had  been,  was  now  atoned 
for.  And  when  they  married  and  went  round 
the  world  for  their  wedding-trip,  they  found  in 
China  a  white  pagoda,  unflawed,  larger,  more 
sublimely  elegant  than  the  old  one.  This  they 
brought  back  to  Gwendolen,  and  with  unfalter- 
ing courage  she  has  placed  it  upon  her  mahog- 
any centre  table. 


THE  SUICIDE 


THE    SUICIDE 

A  COMEDY 

SHE  took  the  bottle  from  its  wrappings  and 
looked  at  it — at  its  apparent  insignificance 
and  the  huge  significance  of  the  glaring  word 
"Poison"  printed  across  it.  She  looked  reso- 
lutely, and  as  resolutely  went  with  it  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  and  locked  it  away  in  the 
Irawer  of  her  dressing-table.  She  paused  here, 
and  her  eyes  met  her  mirrored  eyes.  The  ex- 
pression of  her  face  arrested  her  attention.  Did 
people  who  were  going  to  die  usually  look  so 
calm,  so  placid  ?  Really,  it  was  a  sort  of  placid- 
ity that  gazed  back  at  her,  so  unlike  the  dis- 
figured, tear-blinded  reflection  that  had  been 
there  that  morning — when  she  had  read  the 
paper.  After  the  tempest  of  despair,  the  frozen 
decision,  the  nightmare  securing  of  the 
means  of  death  ( if  any  one  should  guess !  stop 
her!)  it  was  indeed  a  sort  of  apathy  that 
drenched  her  being,  as  if  already  the  drug  had 

141 


142  THE  SUICIDE 

gone  through  it.  The  face  in  the  mirror  was 
very  young  and  very  helpless  and  very  charm- 
ing. It  was  like  the  face  of  a  little  wind-blown 
ghost,  with  its  tossed-back  hair  and  wide, 
empty,  gazing  eyes.  The  sweetness  of  the 
wasted  cheeks  and  soft,  parted  lips  suddenly 
smote  on  the  apathy,  and  tears  came.  She 
pressed  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  struggled,  and 
mastered  herself  again.  Her  own  pathos  must 
not  unnerve,  and  her  unbearable  sorrow  must 
nerve,  her. 

She  looked  at  the  clock  on  the  mantelpiece. 
Just  three.  She  could  give  herself  ample  time 
for  writing  the  letter ;  then  she  must  go  and  post 
it.  Before  five  she  would  be  back  here — locked 
in  her  room.  Before  six — 

She  went  to  the  writing-table,  unlocked  a 
drawer, — the  key  hung  on  a  ribbon  around  her 
neck,  under  her  bodice, — and  took  out  a  thick 
packet  of  closely  written  papers.  Sitting  there, 
hesitating  a  moment,  she  wondered  if  she  would 
look  back  at  those  records  of  hope  and  suffering 
— more  than  a  whole  year  of  beautiful  suffer- 
ing, beautiful  hope.  The  rising  of  tears  again 
warned  her  that  such  a  retrospect  would  make 
her  more  unfit  for  writing  the  last  letter  as  it 
must  be  written — with  full  possession  of  her 
best  and  deepest  meaning.  She  must  be  her 


THE  SUICIDE  143 

most  courageous  self  to  write  now.  The  writer 
of  those  past  records  seemed  a  little  sister  half 
playing  with  her  grief,  beside  the  self  that  sat 
here  now,  stricken  and  determined. 

Drawing  pen  and  paper  to  her,  she  wrote : 

MY  DEAREST — MY  BEST  BELOVED:  This  is  the 
last  of  the  letters.  I  am  going  to  send  them  all  to 
you  now,  so  that  you  may  know  all.  I  read  this 
morning  in  the  paper  that  you  were  to  be  married. 
And  now  there  is  nothing  left  for  me  but  to  die. 
When  you  read  this  I  shall  be  dead. 

You  must  not  blame  me,  or  think  me  too  cow- 
ardly. I  am  a  fragile  person,  I  know,  and  my  life 
hung  on  you.  Without  hope  it  can't  go  on ;  it's  too 
feeble  to  find  anything  else  to  live  for.  And  you 
could  never,  never  blame  yourself.  How  could  you 
have  helped  it  ?  How  could  you  have  dreamed  that 
I  loved  you?  If  you  had  you  could  have  done  noth- 
ing but  be  sorry — and  irked.  But  it  comforts  me 
in  dying  to  let  you  know  how  I  have  loved  you ;  it  is 
like  a  dying  gift  I  make  you, — do  you  see? — all  the 
love  that  I  have  hidden.  If  I  had  lived  I  could 
never  have  made  the  gift.  Had  you  guessed,  or 
had  I  told  you,  it  would  have  been  a  burden,  a 
ludicrous  burden.  But  as  you  read  this,  knowing 
that  I  am  dead,  my  love  must  come  to  you  as  a 
blessing;  you  must  feel  it  as  something,  in  its  little 
way  beautiful,  and  care  for  it;  for  any  love  that 
only  gives  and  makes  no  claim  is  beautiful,  is  it  not  ? 


144  THE  SUICIDE 

I  think  I  find  dying  so  much  easier  than  living  be- 
cause in  dying  I  can  give  you  the  gift. 

All  these  letters,  written  from  the  first  day  I  met 
you,  almost  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  will  tell  you  step 
by  step  what  I  have  felt.  Don't  let  the  hopes  that 
flickered  up  sometimes  hurt  you;  the  strength  of  my 
feeling  made  the  flame,  nothing  that  you  ever  said 
or  did. 

How  I  remember  that  first  day,  in  the  country, 
at  the  Ashwells',  when  mamma  and  I  came  on  to  the 
lawn  where  you  were  all  sitting,  and  mamma  laughed 
at  me  for  stumbling  over  a  chair — and  you  smiled 
at  me.  From  the  moment  I  saw  you  then,  I  loved 
you.  You  were  like  some  dream  come  true.  You 
never  knew  what  joy  it  gave  me  (only  joy;  the  pain 
was  in  not  being  with  you)  when  we  walked  to- 
gether and  talked ;  the  letters  will  tell  you  that.  But 
to-day  it  all  comes  back,  even  the  little  things  that  I 
hardly  knew  I  was  seeing  or  hearing — the  late  white 
roses  in  the  garden;  and  the  robin  sitting  on  the 
garden  wall  (we  stopped  to  look  at  it,  and  it  sat 
still,  looking  at  us :  I  wonder  if  you  remember  the 
robin)  ;  and  the  distant  song  some  labourers  were 
singing  in  the  fields  far  away. 

And  here  in  London,  the  dinners  we  met  at,  the 
teas  you  came  to,  the  one  or  two  books  you  gave  me 
and  that  we  wrote  about — what  I  felt  about  it  all, 
these  meteors  through  my  gray  life,  I  have  written 
it  all  down.  Did  I  not  act  well  ?  You  could  never 
have  guessed,  under  my  composure  and  cheerful- 


THE  SUICIDE  145 

ness,  could  you?     I  am  a  little  proud  of  myself 
when  I  think  of  it. 

And  that  this  is  no  sudden  rocking  of  my  reason 
you  will  see,  too,  from  the  growing  hopelessness, 
of  emptiness  in  the  last  months,  when  I  have  not 
seen  you.  In  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  had  always 
the  little  hope  that  some  day  I  might  give  you  these 
myself,  that  we  might  read  them  together,  you  and 
I,  smiling  over  my  past  sorrow.  And  if  I  had  died, 
and  you  had  not  loved  me,  you  were  to  have  had 
them,  as  I  told  you,  for  I  wanted  to  give  you  my 
love ;  I  could  not  bear  that  it  should  go  out  and  that 
you  should  never  know. 

I  wish  that  I  could  have  died,  and  need  not  have 
killed  myself;  I  am  so  afraid  that  that  may  give  you 
pain,  though  it  ought  not  to,  if  you  think  justly  of 
it  all. 

Of  course  you  will  be  sorry  for  me — I  am  afraid 
that  I  want  you  to  be  sorry;  but  don't  be  too  sad. 
I  am  so  much  happier  in  dying  than  I  could  have 
been  in  living ;  and  in  loving  you  I  have  felt  so  much, 
I  have  lived  so  much — more  perhaps  than  many  peo- 
ple in  a  whole  lifetime. 

See  the  gift  you  have  given  me,  dearest  one. 
Good-bye.  Good-bye. 

ALLIDA. 

It  was  over, — the  last  link  with  life,  her  last 
word  spoken  or  written, — and  the  echo  of  it 
seemed  to  come  to  her  already  as  across  a  great 


146  THE  SUICIDE 

abyss  that  separated  her  from  the  world  of  the 
living. 

With  the  signing  of  her  name  she  had  drawn 
the  shroud  over  her  face. 

Only  the  mechanical  things  now  remained  to 
be  done :  dying  was  really  over ;  she  really  was 
dead. 

She  wrapped  this  last  letter  around  all  the 
others,  kissed  it,  and  sealed  it  in  a  large  en- 
velope; then,  putting  on  her  hat  and  coat  and 
holding  the  letter  in  her  ulster  pocket,  she  left 
her  room  and  went  down  the  stairs. 

The  house  was  a  typically  smart,  flimsy  Lon- 
don house,  of  the  cheaper  Mayf air  sort — a  nar- 
row box  set  on  end  and  fitted  with  chintz  and 
gilt  and  white  mouldings;  a  trap  to  Allida's 
imagination — an  imagination  that  no  longer 
shrank  from  the  contemplation  of  the  facts  of 
her  life;  for  they,  too,  were  seen  from  across 
that  abyss. 

In  the  drawing-room,  among  shaded  lamps, 
cushions,  and  swarming  bric-a-brac,  her  mother 
had  flirted  and  allured — unsuccessfully — for 
how  many  years  ?  She  had  felt,  since  the  time 
when,  as  a  very  little  girl,  she  had  gone  by 
the  room  every  day  coming  in  from  her  walk  at 
tea-time  with  her  governess,  and  heard  inside 
the  high,  smiling,  artificial  voice,  with  its  odd 


THE  SUICIDE  147 

appealing  quality,  its  vague,  waiting  pauses,  the 
shrinking  from  her  mother  and  her  mother's 
aims.  Later  on  the  aims  had  been  for  her,  too, 
and  their  determination  had  been  partly,  Allida 
felt,  hardened  by  the  fact  of  a  grown-up  daugh- 
ter being  such  a  deterrent — so  in  the  way  of  a 
desperate,  fading  beauty  who  had  never  made 
the  brilliant  match  she  hoped  for.  That  she 
had  never,  either,  made  even  a  moderate  match 
for  her,  Allida,  the  girl  felt,  with  a  firmer  clos- 
ing of  her  hand  on  the  letter,  she  perhaps  owed 
to  him.  What  might  her  weakness  and  her 
hatred  of  her  home  not  have  urged  her  into 
had  not  that  ideal — that  seen  and  recognized 
ideal — armed  her?  The  vision  of  old  Captain 
Defflin,  his  bruised-plum  face  and  tight,  pale 
eyes,  rose  before  her,  and  the  vacuous,  unwhole- 
some countenance  of  young  Sir  Alfred  Cutts. 
How  often  had  she  been  dexterously  left  alone 
with  them  in  the  drawing-room !  Thank  God ! 
all  that  was  far,  far  behind  her.  Death  was 
dignified,  sweet-smelling  in  its  peace,  when  she 
thought  of  all  that  the  gilt-and-chintz  drawing- 
room  stood  for  in  her  memories.  Death  was 
sweet  when  life  was  so  ugly. 

Now  she  was  in  the  street,  the  door  closed 
behind  her,  and  no  servant  had  seen  her. 

It  was  a  foggy  afternoon,  and  the  soiled  white 


148  THE  SUICIDE 

houses  opposite  were  dim.  A  thin,  stray  cat 
rubbed  against  the  area  railings  and  mewed  as 
Allida  stood,  pausing  for  a  moment,  on  the 
steps. 

Which  was  the  nearest  pillar-box?  At  the 
end  of  the  street,  just  round  the  corner.  The 
plaintive,  nasal  cry  of  the  cat  caught  her  at- 
tention. Poor  creature!  She  ought  to  spare 
some  poison  for  it.  The  irony  of  the  idea  al- 
most made  her  smile  as  she  stooped  and  patted 
the  dingy  head.  The  cat,  leaning  like  a  ship  in 
a  stiff  wind,  walked  to  and  fro  across  her 
dress,  looking  up  at  her  as  it  still  plaintively, 
interrogatively  mewed.  Its  appeal  put  aside 
for  a  moment  the  decision  as  to  which  pillar- 
box.  She  picked  up  the  cat  and  returned  to 
the  door.  The  maid  answered  her  ring. 

Allida  was  a  little  sorry  that  she  must  speak 
once  more,  after  all,  on  this  mundane  plane. 
The  finish  of  her  tragedy  seemed  slightly 
marred  by  this  episode.  But  she  heard  her 
calm  voice  telling  the  maid  to  feed  the  cat — 
"And  keep  it  until  you  can  find  a  home  for  it. 
Cook  won't  mind,  will  she?" 

"Oh,  no,  miss;  cook  is  fond  of  cats.  Poor 
thing,  then,"  said  the  maid,  who  was  tender  of 
heart. 

Again  the  door  was  shut,  and  again  the 


THE  SUICIDE  149 

pillar-box  was  the  last  act  but  one  of  her 
drama. 

She  walked  swiftly  down  the  street,  think- 
ing, oddly,  more  about  the  cat  than  about  her 
destination  or  the  letter  she  held  clutched  in 
her  pocket.  The  stripes  on  the  cat's  head,  its 
rough,  sooty  fur,  the  sharp  projection  of  its 
backbone  and  the  grotesque  grimace  of  its  mew 
— her  mind  dwelt  on  these  trivial  details;  and 
under  all  was  a  funny  added  contentment  at 
this  further  proof  of  the  mercilessness  and  ugli- 
ness of  the  world  she  was  leaving. 

The  corner  of  the  street  was  reached  and 
turned.  There,  in  the  fog,  stood  the  red  shaft 
of  the  pillar-box.  Beyond  it  a  street  lamp,  al- 
ready lighted,  made  a  blur  of  light  in  the  thick 
air  and  cast  upward  a  long  cone  of  shadow. 

Allida's  heart  suddenly  shrank  and  shud- 
dered. 

The  lamp  and  the  pillar-box  looked  horrible. 
Death  was  horrible.  To  see  him  no  more  was 
horrible.  She  felt  only  horror  as  mechan- 
ically she  took  out  the  letter  and  dropped  it 
into  the  box. 

The  heavy  sound  of  its  fall  turned  her  shud- 
dering heart  to  ice. 

She  had  felt  horror,  she  had  been  prepared 
for  horror,  but  not  for  such  horror  as  this. 


150  THE  SUICIDE 

It  would  all  be  like  this  now,  she  knew,  until 
the  end.  Let  her  hurry  through  it,  then;  let 
her  escape  quickly;  and,  at  all  events,  her  own 
room,  her  familiar  little  room,  with  its  fire,  its 
books,  its  quiet  white  bed,  would  be  a  refuge 
after  this  terrible,  empty  street.  She  thought 
only  of  her  room, — the  thought  blotting  out 
what  would  happen  in  it, — knowing  only  that 
she  longed  to  be  there,  with  a  longing  like  a 
wounded  child's  for  its  mother's  arms.  And 
yet  she  still  stood  staring  at  the  slit  in  the  pillar- 
box. 

"Miss  Eraser,"  a  voice  said  beside  her. 

It  was  a  voice  of  carefully  quiet  greeting, 
guarded  interrogation,  guarded  expostulation. 

She  looked  up,  feeling  something  shatter  in 
her,  fearing  that  she  was  going  to  faint.  It 
was  almost  like  the  crash  of  death  and  like 
a  swooning  into  a  new  consciousness.  She 
only  dimly,  through  the  swooning  sense  of 
change,  recognized  the  face  that  looked  at  her, 
smiling,  but  so  puzzled,  so  pained — so  pained 
that  she  guessed  that  her  own  face  must  show 
some  strange  terror. 

She  had  seen  the  face,  in  the  chintz-and-gilt 
drawing-room, — it  had  seemed  out  of  place 
there, — she  had  seen  it  often ;  but  memory  was 
blurred.  Had  he  not  taken  her  down  to  din- 


THE  SUICIDE  151 

ner  somewhere  only  the  other  day?  Yes;  she 
knew  him  well;  only  she  was  dead,  a  ghost, 
and  reality,  familiar  reality,  looked  different. 

"Mr.  Haldicott,"  she  said,  putting  out  her 
hand.  Her  voice  was  normal — she  heard  that ; 
she  felt  that  she  could  almost  have  smiled. 
Yet  something  was  fearfully  shattered,  some 
power  in  herself  that  had  directed  her  so  reso- 
lutely till  now.  The  cat  had  been  disconcert- 
ing, but  the  appearance  of  this  man,  whom  she 
knew  quite  well,  who  might  talk,  might  ques- 
tion her,  might  walk  back  beside  her,  seemed 
fatally  disconcerting.  For  could  she  act? 
Could  she  still  speak  on  normally  ?  And  further 
delay,  now  that  every  link  was  broken,  now 
that  to  all  real  intents  and  purposes  she  was 
dead,  was  a  torture  too  fearful  to  be  contem- 
plated. Yet  how  evade  it?  She  felt  that  her 
hand,  which  he  still  held,  held  very  tightly,  was 
trembling. 

"You  are  ill,"  he  said. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"No;  not  at  all.  I  only  came  out  for  a  little 
walk.  And  I  must  go  back  to  tea." 

"Your  mother  is  at  home?" 

"No;  she  is  out  of  town.  She  doesn't  get 
back  till  to-morrow." 

"You  are  going  to  have  tea  all  alone?" 


152  THE  SUICIDE 

Allida  gazed  at  him.  How  should  she  evade 
him  if  he  offered  to  come  back? 

"I  haven't  had  my  walk  yet.  I  came  out 
for  a  little  walk,"  she  repeated. 

By  the  blurred  light  of  the  street  lamp  he 
still  looked  at  her,  still  held  her  trembling  hand. 
His  face  showed  his  perplexed  indecision. 
Suddenly  he  drew  the  hand  within  his  arm. 

"Let  us  have  the  little  walk,  then,"  he  said, 
"only  you  must  let  me  come  with  you.  You  are 
in  some  great  trouble.  Don't  bother  to  deny  it. 
Don't  say  anything.  Your  face  showed  me 
that  something  dreadful  was  happening  to  you. 
Don't  speak — I  saw  it  as  I  was  passing  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street.  The  lamp  was 
just  lighted,  else  I  shouldn't  have  recognised 
you.  Now  walk  quietly  on  like  this.  Don't 
even  think.  I'm  not  a  meddling  idiot;  I  know 
I'm  not.  You  are  desperate  about  something, 
and  anything,  any  one,  even  a  complete 
stranger,  and  I'm  not  that,  who  steps  in  be- 
tween desperation  and  an  act  is  justified — per- 
haps a  Godsend." 

He  was  walking  beside  her,  half  leading  her, 
talking  quickly,  as  if  to  give  her  time  to  re- 
cover, and  glancing  at  her  stricken,  helpless 
face. 

As  they  walked  they  heard  behind  them  the 


THE  SUICIDE  153 

rattling  fall  of  letters  into  a  postman's  bag; 
the  pillar-box  had  been  emptied. 

The  youth  of  the  face,  its  essential  childish- 
ness, the  web  of  soft  hair  that  hung  disar- 
ranged over  her  cheek,  made  her  look  like  a 
very  little  girl,  and  was  in  strange  contrast 
with  the  look  of  terror. 

They  walked  on  and  on,  down  streets,  across 
wide,  phantasmal  squares. 

Haldicott  held  the  hand  on  his  arm, — he  did 
not  speak, — and  Allida  felt  herself  moving 
with  him  through  the  fog  like  an  Eurydice  led 
by  Orpheus,  a  shade  among  the  shades.  And 
all  the  while  there  hovered  before  her  thoughts 
the  vision  of  that  quiet  room,  that  white  bed, 
still  waiting  for  her.  Suddenly  she  broke  into 
sobs.  She  stopped.  She  leaned  helplessly 
against  his  arm. 

"Good  heavens!  you  will  tell  me  now," 
Haldicott  exclaimed.  "Cross  the  road  here. 
Lean  on  me.  We  will  go  into  the  park.  No 
one  can  see  you." 

She  stumbled  on  blindly  beside  him,  both 
hands  clutching  his  arm. 

All  she  knew  was  that  she  had  left  life  be- 
hind her,  and  yet  that  she  must  go  back  to 
that  room,  and  that  the  room  now  was  more 
horrible  than  the  pillar-box  had  been.  She 


154  THE  SUICIDE 

had  left  life  behind  her,  and  yet  she  still  clung 
to  it  —  here  beside  her.    Life  !  life  !  warm,  kind 


In  the  park  he  led  her  into  a  deserted  path. 
A  bench  stood  beneath  a  tall,  leafless  tree,  its 
branches  stencilled  flatly  on  the  yellow-gray 
fog.  Haldicott  and  Allida  sat  down  side  by 
side. 

"Now  tell  me.  You  can  trust  me  utterly. 
Tell  me  everything,"  said  Haldicott. 

His  fine  face,  all  competence  and  mastery, 
studied  hers,  its  shattered  loveliness.  She 
leaned  her  head  back  against  the  bench.  Life 
was  there,  and  a  great  peace  seemed  to  flow 
through  her  as  the  mere  consciousness  of  its 
presence  filled  her.  As  long  as  he  held  her 
hand  she  could  not  be  frightened;  and  since 
she  was  only  a  ghost,  since  all  her  past  seemed 
to  have  dropped  from  her,  she  could  look  at  it 
with  him,  she  could  tell  him  what  he  asked. 
As  if  exhausted,  borne  along  by  his  will,  she 
said,  "I  am  going  to  commit  suicide." 

Haldicott  made  no  ejaculation  and  no  move- 
ment. Her  eyes  were  closed,  and  he  studied 
her  face.  Its  innocent  charm  almost  made 
him  smile  at  her  words  ;  and  yet  the  expression 
he  had  seen  from  across  the  street,  as  she 
dropped  that  letter  into  the  box  and  stood 


THE  SUICIDE  155 

frozen,  had  gone  too  well  with  such  words. 
He  reflected  silently.  He  had  long  known  Al- 
lida  Eraser,  never  more  than  slightly;  and  yet 
from  the  frequency  of  slight  knowledge  he 
found  that  he  had  accumulated,  quite  uncon- 
sciously, an  impression  of  her,  distinct,  sweet, 
appealing.  He  saw  her,  silent  and  gentle,  in 
her  tawdry  mother's  tawdry  house;  he  heard 
her  grave  quiet  voice.  He  had  thought  her, 
not  knowing  that  he  thought  at  all,  charming. 
He  had  always  been  glad  to  talk  to  her,  to  make 
her  gravity,  the  little  air  of  chill  composure 
that  he  had  so  understood,  and  liked,  in  the 
daughter  of  a  desperate,  faded  flirt,  warm  into 
confident  interest  and  smiles.  Thinking  of 
that  quiet  voice,  that  gentle  smile,  the  poise  and 
dignity  of  all  the  little  personality,  he  could 
not  connect  them  with  hysterical  shallowness. 
But  he  had,  he  now  recognized,  thought  of  her 
as  older,  more  tempered  to  reality.  There  was 
a  revelation  of  desperate  youth,  and  youth's 
sense  of  the  finality  of  desperation,  on  her  face ; 
and,  with  all  the  rigid  resolve  he  had  seen,  he 
could  guess  in  it  youth's  essential  fluidity. 
She  was  resolved,  and  yet  all  resolves  in  a 
soul  so  young  were  only  moods,  unless  cir- 
cumstances let  them  stand  still,  stagnate,  and 
finally  freeze.  She  was  not  frozen  yet.  It 


156  THE  SUICIDE 

was  only  a  mood  standing  still;  shake  it,  and 
it  would  fluctuate  into  surprising  changes. 
Allida  opened  her  eyes  while  he  reflected, 
and  many  moments  had  gone  by  since  her 
words. 

"How  amazing  that  I  should  tell  you, 
calmly  tell  you,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "And  yet 
I  can't  feel  it  as  amazing.  Nothing  could 
amaze  me.  I  seem  to  have  passed  beyond  any 
feeling  of  that  sort.  But  since  I  am  so  really 
dead  already,  that  I  can  tell  you,  you  must  re- 
spect my  confidence  in  you.  You  must  not  try 
to  prevent  me.  I  trust  you." 

"I  shan't  prevent  you,"  said  Haldicott. 

Again  she  closed  her  eyes.  "Thanks.  It 
is  almost  a  comfort  to  be  able  to  tell  some  one. 
I  know  now  how  fearfully  lonely  I  have  been. 
And  yet — I  wish  I  hadn't  met  you — or  I  will 
wish  it.  Now  I  can  wish  nothing,  and  feel 
nothing — except  that  you  are  there,  alive,  and 
that  I  am  going  to  die.  But  it  will  be  harder 
to  do  now.  Everything  seems  so  vague, 
everything  seems  left  behind.  The  very  sor- 
row that  makes  me  do  it  seems  so  far  away — 
like  a  dream.  I  can't  go  through  all  the 
realization  again,  and  when  I  do  it  now,  it  will 
seem  to  be  for  something  unreal."  Her  voice 
trailed  off. 


THE  SUICIDE  157 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  going  to  do  it?" 
Haldicott  asked  presently. 

They  spoke  very  slowly,  with  long  pauses, 
as  though  a  monotony  of  leisure  were  about 
them;  as  though,  in  some  quiet,  dim  place  of 
departed  spirits,  time  had  ceased. 

"Yes;  quite  sure.  I  have  bought  it — the 
poison — I  had  a  doctor's  prescription — I  have 
thought  it  all  out  carefully.  It's  in  the  top 
drawer  of  my  dressing-table." 

She  would,  he  saw,  tell  him  everything. 

Again  he  paused. 

"Is  it  an  irremediable  sorrow  that  makes  life 
impossible,  or  is  it  life  itself,  in  general,  that 
you  can't  go  on  with  ?" 

"Both— both,"  said  Allida. 

Again  a  long,  long  silence  grew;  every  mo- 
ment, Haldicott  felt,  a  drop  in  the  deep  cup 
of  oblivion  that,  unconsciously,  she  was  drink- 
ing, that  would  make  the  past  more  and  more 
unreal,  until  from  oblivion  she  woke  into  the 
sane  world  of  struggle  and  life. 

"Yet  you  are  so  young,"  he  said  at  last, 
"with  everything  before  you — real  joys  as  well 
as — forgive  me! — realer  sorrows;  they  would 
balance  better  if  you  would  live  a  little  longer. 
You  know,  if  you  waited  for  just  one  year, 
let  us  say,  you  would  look  back  with  wonder 


158  THE  SUICIDE 

at  this,  with  thankfulness  that  you  hadn't." 

"Perhaps,"  she  said.  "Only  I  don't  want  to 
live  that  year." 

"And  when  were — when  are  you  going  to 
do  it?" 

"This  evening.  I  had  meant  to  do  it  long 
before  this.  Mamma  is  away.  There  could 
be  no  better  time.  Besides,  it  must  be  this 
evening.  I've  written." 

"To  her?     To  tell  her?" 

"No,"  Allida  answered ;  "not  to  her."  And 
she  added,  "I  don't  love  her." 

"Your  mother?" 

"This  is  my  dying  confession,  so  I  will  say 
the  truth.  No,  I  don't  love  her.  She  has 
made  me  so  unhappy — made  life  so  ugly." 

"Then  you  wrote  to  some  one  whom  you  do 
love?" 

"Yes,"  said  Allida,  after  another  pause. 
Her  ,hat  had  loosened  as  she  leaned  her  head 
back,  and  her  disordered  hair  was  about  her 
face;  she  still  kept  her  eyes  closed  with  her 
expression  of  weary  abandonment  to  the  peace 
of  confession. 

He  looked  at  her  keenly,  with  most  intent 
interest,  most  intent  pity,  and  yet  with  a  flicker 
of  amusement  in  the  look.  She  could  do  it. 
He  believed  her.  Yet  it  would  be  as  absurd  as 


THE  SUICIDE  159 

it  would  be  tragic  if  she  did.  It  wasn't  a  face 
made  for  tragedy ;  it  had  strayed  into  it  by  mis- 
take. 

"This  some  one  you  love,"  he  said  gently, 
"will  it  not  hurt  them  terribly?  Have  you 
thought  of  that?" 

He  saw  the  tears  come.  They  rolled  slowly 
down  her  cheeks.  She  faintly  whispered : 

"He  doesn't  love  me." 

Haldicott  could  feel  no  amusement  now,  the 
pity  was  too  great.  He  put  his  other  hand  on 
the  hand  he  held. 

"Used  he  to  love  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  said  Allida ;  "he  never  loved  me." 

For  a  moment  Haldicott  struggled  with  a 
half-nervous  wish  to  laugh;  relief  was  in  the 
wish. 

"And  he  knows  that  you  love  him  ?"  he  con- 
trolled his  voice  to  ask. 

"He  will— when  he  gets  my  letter." 

"Poor  devil!"  ejaculated  Haldicott. 

"Oh,  you  don't  understand!"  cried  Allida. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  sat  upright,  drawing 
her  hand  from  his.  "How  could  you  under- 
stand ?  You  think  it's  a  sort  of  vengeance  I'm 
taking — for  his  not  loving  me.  I  can't  drag 
myself  through  explanations,  indeed  I  can't. 
Of  course  I  see  that  my  tragedy  to  you  must  be 


160  THE  SUICIDE 

almost  farce.  I  must  go.  Why  should  I  have 
told  you  anything?  I  am  desecrating  it  all, 
making  it  all  grotesque,  by  being  still  alive." 

"No,  no;  you  mustn't  go  yet,"  said  Haldi- 
cott,  seizing  her  hand  firmly,  yet  with  not  too 
obvious  a  restraint.  "You  mustn't  go,  not  at 
peace  with  me.  You  have  all  the  evening  still 
before  you, — it's  not  six  yet, — and  it  doesn't 
take  long  to  kill  one's  self  with  poison.  Trust 
me.  You  must  trust  me.  Don't  think  about 
its  being  grotesque ;  most  things  are  in  certain 
aspects.  I  think  that  we  are  both  behaving 
very  naturally,  considering  the  circumstances. 
The  circumstances,  I  grant  you,  are  a  little  gro- 
tesque— not  the  circumstance  of  your  being  still 
alive,  but  of  your  wishing  to  die.  But,  indeed, 
I  shall  understand,  you  poor  child,  poor  sweet 
child,  if  you  will  explain." 

Again  the  mirage  sense  of  compulsion,  of 
peace  in  yielding  to  it,  of  letting  this  ghost- 
like consciousness  shut  out  the  long  past  and 
the  short  future,  crept  over  her.  She  sank 
back  again  beside  him. 

"But  how  can  I  explain?  Where  shall  I 
begin?" 

"Listen  to  me  now,  dear  Allida — we  can  use 
Christian  names,  I  think,  in  a  case  of  last  dying 
confession  like  this.  I  am  not  going  to  pre- 


THE  SUICIDE  161 

vent  you,  or  put  any  constraint  upon  you;  but 
I  want  you  to  explain  as  clearly  and  fully  as 
you  can,  so  that,  in  trying  to  make  me  see,  you 
may  see  yourself,  clearly  and  fully,  what  you 
are  doing,  where  you  are.  Probably  you  are  in 
a  condition  of  absolutely  irrational  despair. 
Let  us  look  at  it  together.  I  may  be  able  to 
show  you  something  else.  Begin  with  him. 
Who  is  he?" 

Allida  had  leaned  forward,  her  elbows  on  her 
knees.  She  dropped  her  face  into  her  hands  as 
she  answered : 

"Oliver  Ainslie." 

"Yes;  I  know  him/' 

"Yes;  you  know  him." 

"He  is — a  charming  fellow,"  said  Haldicott. 

"I  met  him  over  a  year  ago,"  said  Allida. 
"I  am  very  miserable  at  home.  I  have  grown 
up  alone.  My  mother  and  I  have  never  been 
at  all  sympathetic.  I  hardly  saw  her  when  I 
was  growing  up.  She  only  wanted  to  marry 
me  off  as  soon  as  possible,  and — she  hasn't 
found  it  easy  to  marry  me  off.  I  haven't 
money — or  looks  in  particular — oh,  but  I  can't 
go  into  all  that !  You  know  mamma.  I  have 
hated  my  life  with  her." 

"Yes,  yes.     I  understand." 

"Not  that  there  is  any  harm  in  mamma," 


162  THE  SUICIDE 

Allida  amended,  with  a  weary  exactitude; 
"everybody  understands  that,  too.  Only  she  is 
so  utterly  silly,  so  utterly  selfish.  This  all 
sounds  horrible." 

"I  understand." 

"I  met  him.  I  had  never  seen  any  one  so 
dear,  so  sympathetic.  I  seemed  to  breathe  with 
happiness  when  he  was  there.  It  was  like 
morning  sunlight  after  a  hot,  glaring  ball- 
room, being  with  him.  He  never  cared  one  bit 
for  me ;  but — the  first  time  I  saw  him  he  smiled 
at  me,  and  he  was  kind  and  dear  to  me, — as 
he  would  be  to  any  one, —  and  from  that  first 
moment  I  loved  him — oh,  loved  him !" 

She  paused,  a  sacred  sweetness  in  the  pause. 

Haldicott,  sitting  beside  her  in  the  fog,  felt 
the  presence  of  something  radiant  and  snowy. 

"And  I  sometimes  thought  and  hoped — that 
he  would  care  for  me.  I  wrote  to  him  all  the 
time,  letters  I  never  sent;  but  I  wrote  as  if 
he  were  to  see  them — some  day.  It's  almost 
strange  to  me  to  think  that  such  love  didn't 
bring  him  to  me  by  its  very  force  and  yearn- 
ing. One  hears,  you  know,  of  thoughts  mak- 
ing themselves  felt — becoming  realities.  I 
wonder  where  all  those  thoughts  of  mine 
went!" 


THE  SUICIDE  163 

He  saw  them  all — those  white,  innocent 
thoughts — flying  out  like  birds,  like  a  flock  of 
white  birds,  and  disappearing  in  the  darkness. 
How  could  a  soul  not  have  felt  them  fluttering 
about  it,  crying  vainly  for  admittance  ?  He  al- 
most shared  Allida's  wonder. 

"And  to-day,  I  sent  all  the  letters  with  the 
last  one  telling  of  my  death.  For — I  saw  it 
this  morning — he  is  engaged.  So  I  couldn't 
go  on.  I  could  never  love  any  one  else;  I 
shouldn't  want  to.  My  heart  broke  when  I 
read  the  paper;  really  it  broke.  And  I  ex- 
plained it  all  to  him,  so  that  it  could  not  hurt 
him,  that  I  was  dying  because  life  had  become 
worthless  to  me — and  yet  that  there  was  joy 
in  dying  because  I  could,  in  dying,  tell  him. 
There  had  been  beauty  and  joy  in  loving  him ; 
he  must  not  be  too  sorry ;  and  he  must  care  for 
my  love.  It  was  a  gift — a  gift  that  I  could 
give  him  only  in  going  away  for  ever  myself." 

She  was  silent.  The  evening  was  late  by 
now,  and  the  fog  about  them  shut  them  into  a 
little  space,  a  little  island  just  large  enough  for 
their  bench,  a  bit  of  path,  a  dim  border  of  rail- 
ing opposite,  and  a  branch  of  tree  overhead. 
The  muffled  sound  of  cautious  traffic  was  far 
away.  They  were  wonderfully  alone. 


164  THE  SUICIDE 

Haldicott  took  one  of  the  hands  on  which  she 
leaned,  and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

"Sweet,  foolish  child !"  he  said. 

She  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  him;  it 
was  almost  as  if  she  saw  him  for  the  first  time 
— the  man,  not  only  Life's  personification. 
They  could  still  see  quite  clearly  each  other's 
faces,  and  for  a  long  time,  gravely,  they  looked 
into  each  other's  eyes. 

"Don't  you  see  that  it's  all  a  dream?"  said 
Haldicott. 

"A  dream?"  Allida  repeated.  "The  reality 
of  a  whole  year?" 

And  yet  it  was  a  dream  to  her;  even  while 
she  had  told  him  of  that  year  it  was  as  if  she 
told  of  something  far  behind  her,  lived  through 
long,  long  ages  ago,  in  another,  a  different  life. 

But  she  struggled  to  hold  the  vanishing  pain 
and  beauty  of  it  all — the  reality  that,  unreal, 
would  make  her  whole  being  seem  like  a  little 
handful  of  thin  cloud  dying  away  into  empti- 
ness. 

"This  is  a  dream,"  she  said,  still  looking  at 
him,  "this,  this.  What  am  I  doing  here?" 
She  rose  to  her  feet,  gasping  now.  "Oh!  he 
will  get  the  letter — and  I  shall  not  be  dead! 
I  must  go  at  once — at  once !" 

"To  save  yourself  from  being  ridiculous? 


THE  SUICIDE  165 

You  are  going  to  kill  yourself  so  as  to  keep 
a  tragic  attitude  that  you've  taken  before  this 
man  who  doesn't  care  for  you — an  attitude 
that's  really  disarranged  ?  Dear — pitiful — en- 
chanting little  idiot !"  said  Haldicott. 

He  had  risen  too,  and,  holding  her  hands,  he 
still,  but  not  too  obviously,  kept  her  near  him. 

His  words  were  almost  cruel  in  their  light- 
ness; his  voice  had  a  feeling  that,  more  than 
any  words,  any  supplication  or  remonstrance, 
made  her  past  life  seem  illusory,  and  she  her- 
self, with  it,  disappearing  into  pure  nothing- 
ness. The  world  rocked  with  her.  Only  the 
feeling  in  that  voice  seemed  real. 

"Are  you  sure,  are  you  sure,"  he  said,  "that 
you  can  never  love  anybody  else?  Won't  you 
wait  a  year  to  find  out?  Won't  you  wait  a 
month?  Allida,  won't  you  wait  a  day?" 

"Why  do  you  try  to  humiliate  me?"  she 
gasped,  and  the  tears  fell  down  her  face.  He 
almost  feared  that  he  had  been  brutal,  that  she 
was  going  to  faint. 

"I  am  not  trying  to  humiliate  you.  I  am  try- 
ing to  wake  you.  Perhaps  the  truth  will  wake 
you.  Will  you  wait  a  day,  an  hour,  Allida,  and 
see?" 

"See  what?" 

"That  this  is  a  dream;  that  you  wove  it  out 


166  THE  SUICIDE 

of  nothing  to  fill  the  emptiness  of  your  sad  life; 
that  it  would  have  gathered  round  the  first 
'dear  sympathetic'  person  who  smiled  at  you. 
And  after  you  see  that,  will  you  wait  and  see 
"  he  paused. 

"What?"  she  repeated. 

"How  much  I  can  make  you  love  me,"  said 
Haldicott. 

"Why  do  you  mock  me?"  Allida  said. 
"Why,  unless  you  think  me  mad  ?" 

"Well,  of  course  you  are  mad,  in  a  sense ;  any 
coroner's  inquest  would  say  so.  But  mock  you ! 
I  love  you,  Allida." 

Her  face  had  now  as  wild,  as  frozen  a  look 
on  it  as  the  one  he  had  seen,  not  three  hours 
before,  after  she  had  slipped  the  letter  into  the 
pillar-box;  but  it  was  with  another  wildness — 
of  wonder  rather  than  of  despair. 

"But  how  can  you  ?"  she  faltered. 

"I  can  tell  you  how,  but  you  must  wait  an 
hour — more  than  an  hour — to  hear.  You  will 
wait— Allida?" 

"It  is  pity,  to  save  me." 

"To  save  you  ?  Why,  I'd  hand  you  over  to 
the  nearest  policeman  if  I  only  wanted  to  save 
you.  I  do  want  to  save  you — for  myself." 

There  drifted  through  her  mind  a  vision  of 
her  little  room,  where,  by  this  time,  she  might 


THE  SUICIDE  167 

have  been  lying  on  the  bed,  the  empty  bottle 
of  poison  near  her.  And  that  vision  of  death 
was  now  far  away,  across  an  abyss,  and  she 
was  in  life,  and  life  held  her,  claimed  her. 

"But  I  can't  understand.  How  is  it  possi- 
ble?" She  closed  her  eyes.  "My  letter,"  she 
whispered. 

Haldicott  put  his  arm  around  her  and  led  her 
down  the  path. 

"Ainslie  is  a  dear  fellow,"  he  said.  "We  will 
write  him  another  letter  as  soon  as  we  get 


in." 


She  was  hardly  aware  of  the  walk  back  to 
the  little  house  in  Mayfair,  back  to  the  door- 
step where,  such  aeons  ago,  she  had  paused  to 
look  at  the  crying  cat.  If  she  had  not  paused, 
if  she  had  gone  a  little  earlier  to  the  pillar-box, 

before  the  lamp  was  lighted Her  mind 

was  blurred  again.  All — all  was  dream,  ex- 
cept that  life,  near  her,  was  claiming  her. 

Now  they  were  in  the  drawing-room,  among 
the  shaded  lamps,  the  gilt,  the  chintz  and  bric- 
a-brac. 

Haldicott  sent  for  wine  and  made  her  drink. 
He  said  to  the  maid  that  Miss  Eraser  had  felt 
faint  during  her  walk.  For  a  long  time  Al- 
lida  leaned  back  in  the  chair  where  he  had  put 
her,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand. 


i68  THE  SUICIDE 

"Can  you  write  to  Ainslie  now?"  Haldicott 
asked  at  last.  "We  will  send  your  letter  by 
special  messenger." 

"Yes,  yes;  let  me  write."  She  drew  off  her 
gloves,  and  Haldicott  put  paper  and  pen  be- 
fore her. 

She  looked  up  at  him. 

"What  shall  I  say?"  she  asked. 

This  time,  uncontrollably,  he  wanted  to 
laugh;  if  he  did  not  laugh  he  must  burst  out 
crying;  he  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table  as  he 
sat  beside  her,  burying  his  face  on  his  arms, 
his  shoulders  shaking. 

Allida  sat  with  the  pen  in  her  hand,  gazing 
at  him.  The  nightmare,  after  all,  was  too 
near  for  her  to  share  his  dubious  amusement; 
but  that  she  saw  its  point  as  well  as  he  did  was 
evinced  in  her  next  question,  asked  in  still  the 
faltering  voice : 

"Shall  I  say  that  I've  decided  to  wait  a 
day?" 

Haldicott  looked  up. 

"Thank  Heaven,  you  have  a  sense  of  humour. 
It  was  my  one  anxiety  about  you — all  through. 
Say,  dearest  Allida,  that  you  are  awake." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  now,  though  she  did 
not  smile,  her  wan  face  was  touched  by  a  pale, 
responsive  radiance. 


THE  SUICIDE  169 

"It  is  so  strange — to  be  awake,"  she  mur- 
mured, bending  to  her  paper. 

But  hardly  had  the  first  slow  line  been  writ- 
ten when  running  steps  were  heard  outside,  the 
door  was  flung  open  before  the  amazed  maid 
could  reach  it,  and  Oliver  Ainslie,  white  and 
distraught,  darted  into  the  room. 


HE  did  not  glance  at  Haldicott.  The  distrac- 
tion of  his  look  had  only  time  to  break  into 
stupefied  thanksgiving  before  the  same  rush 
that  had  brought  him  in  carried  him  to  Al- 
lida.  He  fell  on  his  knees  before  her.  Clasp- 
ing her  round  the  waist,  he  hid  his  face,  cry- 
ing, "Thank  God !" 

Allida  sat,  still  holding  her  pen.  She  did 
not  look  at  Ainslie,  but  across  the  room  at 
Haldicott,  and  again,  before  her  look,  as  of  one 
confronted  with  her  own  utter  inadequacy  to 
deal  with  the  situation,  Haldicott  could  almost 
have  laughed.  But  the  moment  for  light  in- 
terpretations had  gone.  Anything  amusing  in 
the  present  situation  was  only  grimly  so  for 
him.  The  fairy  prince  had  turned  up — a  real 
fairy  prince,  for  a  wonder,  and  three  hours  of 
everyday  reality  had  no  chance  of  counting 
against  a  year  of  fairy-tale  with  such  a  last 


i;o  THE  SUICIDE 

chapter.  After  all,  it  was  very  beautiful;  he 
was  able  to  see  that,  thank  goodness !  Yet  Al- 
lida's  perfectly  blank  look  held  him.  She  was 
evidently  unable  to  deal  single-handed  with  her 
dilemma — to  explain  to  her  fairy  prince  why 
he  found  her  alive  rather  than  dead.  Haldi- 
cott  turned  to  the  mantelpiece  and  moved,  un- 
seeingly,  the  idiotic  silver  ornaments  upon  it, 
waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  strike  a  blow  for 
her  deliverance. 

Ainslie  had  lifted  his  face  to  hers. 

"It  was  a  mistake,  that  announcement:  it's 
my  cousin  who  is  to  be  married;  we  have  the 
same  name.  Oh,  Allida!  darling  Allida!  if  I 
had  not  come  in  time!  That  I  should  have 
found  you — you!  And  only  just  in  time !" 

He  became  now,  perhaps  from  the  blankness 
of  her  face,  aware  more  fully  of  Haldicott's 
unobtrusive  presence. 

To  the  silent  query  of  his  eyes  she  answered : 

"He  knows — everything." 

"He  prevented  you!  He  met  you  and  pre- 
vented you !  I  see  it  all.  Haldicott,  it  is  you, 
isn't  it " 

Haldicott  reluctantly  turned  to  him. 

"My  dear  fellow,  can  I  ever  thank  you 
enough  ?  My  dear  Haldicott,  it's  all  too  aston- 
ishing. You  know?  And  why  she  was  go- 


THE  SUICIDE  171 

ing  to?  The  poor,  darling  child!"  He  had 
risen,  and,  with  his  arm  around  Allida's  shoul- 
ders, was  gazing  at  her. 

"I  saw  Miss  Fraser  posting  her  letter  to  you, 
and  guessed  from  her  expression  that  some- 
thing very  bad  was  up,"  said  Haldicott.  "I 
forced  her  to  walk  a  little  with  me,  and  I  made 
her  tell  me  the  story;  and  then  I  made  her  see 
that  the  truer  love  for  you  would  be  shown  in 
living.  She  had  just  recognised  that," — Hal- 
dicott smiled  at  her, — "and  she  was  going  to 
write,  and  see  if  she  couldn't  waylay  that  let- 
ter— spare  you  the  pain  of  it  and,  at  all  events, 
tell  you  that  she  wasn't  going  to  burden  you 
with  unfair  remorse  for  the  rest  of  your  days. 
That's  about  the  truth  of  it  all,  isn't  it?"  And 
he  so  believed  it  to  be,  now,  the  only  essential 
truth,  or,  at  least,  the  half-truth  that  she  had 
better  believe  in,  that  his  smile  had  not  a  touch 
of  bitterness. 

Allida  still  held  her  pen  and  still  gazed  at 
him. 

"Ah!  thank  God  for  it  all— for  the  fact  that 
the  letter  wasn't  waylaid,  and  for  the  fact  that 
you  were,  Allida!  When  I  think  of  it — 
that  gift  coming  to  me — your  gift,  Allida — and 
not  too  late — not  too  late !" 

The  young  man,  in  his  rapturous  thankful- 


172  THE  SUICIDE 

ness,  indifferent  to  the  guardian  presence, 
raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  kissing  it  with  a 
fervour  where  tears  struggled  with  smiles. 

"I'll  go  now,"  Haldicott  said  gently.  "I'm 
so — immensely  glad  for  you  both." 

But  Allida,  at  this,  started  from  her  helpless 
apathy. 

"No,  no!  Don't— don't  go!"  she  cried.  "I 
can't  think.  It's  all  so  impossible.  Do  you 
mean,"  and  her  eyes  now  went  to  Ainslie  while 
she  drew  her  hand  from  his — "do  you  mean 
that  you  love  me  ?" 

"Love  you,  darling  Allida?  Don't  you  see 
it?" 

"Because  you  got  the  letter,"  Allida  said,  as 
if  linking  in  her  mind  a  chain  of  evidence.  "If 
you  hadn't  got  it — you  would  not  love  me 
now." 

"Forgive  me,  dearest,  for  my  blindness!  I 
should  not  have  known  you  if  I  had  not  got 
it." 

Allida  still  looked  at  him. 

"You  are  just  as  dear — even  dearer  than  I 
thought  you ;  you  are  even  more  worthy  of  any 
love  than  I  dreamed,"  she  said.  Her  face  had 
lost  all  apathy,  all  helplessness.  It  was  with  the 
stricken  resolution  that  it  could  so  strangely 
show  that  she  pushed  back  her  chair  and  rose, 


THE  SUICIDE  173 

moving  away  from  the  young  man,  who,  en- 
chantingly  a  fairy  prince,  gazed  at  her  with 
adoring  eyes. 

"It  was  written  in  a  dream,"  said  Allida, 
clasping  her  hands  and  returning  his  gaze.  "It 
was  written  in  a  dream,"  she  repeated.  "It  was 
all — all  the  whole  year — a  dream — only  a 
dream." 

The  trust  of  his  gaze  was  too  deep  for  under- 
standing to  sink  through  it. 

"I  am  awake  now,"  said  Allida;  "you  are 
dearer  than  I  ever  dreamed,  but  I  am  awake." 

"When  reality  comes,  the  past  always  seems 
rather  dream-like,"  Ainslie  said.  He  felt  and 
understood  as  well,  as  truly  as  the  other  had 
done.  "Darling  Allida,  I  can  never  be  worthy 
of  such  a  love  as  yours,  but  I  will  try.  And 
now  that  you  are  awake,  you  will  find  how 
much  better  waking  is  than  any  dream." 

She  gasped  at  this,  and  retreated  before  him. 

"But  I  am  horrid;  I  am  unbelievable.  There 
isn't  any  reality.  There  isn't  any  love  to  be 
worthy  of,"  she  cried,  and  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

Ainslie,  from  her  attitude  of  avowal  and 
abasement,  looked  his  stupefaction  at  Haldicott, 
and,  for  all  answer,  got  a  stupefaction  as  com- 
plete. 


174  THE  SUICIDE 

"What  does  she  mean?"  the  younger  man  at 
length  inquired. 

"I  don't  think  she  knows  what  she  means," 
Haldicott  answered.  "I  think  she  is,  naturally, 
overwrought.  All  feeling,  all  meaning,  is 
paralyzed.  She  probably  won't  mean  anything 
worth  listening  to  for  a  good  while." 

They  were  speaking  quite  as  if  Allida,  stand- 
ing there  with  her  hidden  face,  were  a  lunatic, 
the  diagnosis  of  whose  harmless  case  was  as 
yet  impossible  in  the  absence  of  fresh  symp- 
toms. But  a  symptom  was  forthcoming. 

"I  mean  that,"  she  said.  "I  don't  understand. 
I  can't  explain.  It's  as  if  something  were 
broken  in  me.  There  isn't  any  love ;  there  never 
will  be.  If  you  can  ever  forgive  me,  please  tell 
me  so — when  you  do.  It  mustn't  be  more  than  a 
dream  for  you,  too — a  dream  only  an  hour  long." 

The  two  men  again  exchanged  glances,  but 
now  with  more  hesitation. 

"But,  Allida," — Ainslie  spoke  with  gentle 
pain — "I  love  you.  I  am  not  dreaming.  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  can't  love  me?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  if  I  had  loved  you,  with 
no  letter  to  awaken  me,  you  would  have  thought 
your  love  a  dream,  merely  because  it  was  an- 
swered?" 


THE  SUICIDE  175 

"It  isn't  that.  I  can't  explain.  Something 
broke.  You  came  too  late.  It's  as  if  I  had 
died — and  become  almost  another  person.  I 
know  it's  unbelievable;  I  don't  understand  it 
myself ;  but  it  is  true.  It  is  all  over,  really." 

"All  over  ?"  dazedly  Ainslie  repeated.  "But 
why?  After  those  letters?  After  what  you 
were  going  to  do  ?  Allida !" 

She  dropped  her  hands,  and  once  more  her 
eyes  went  to  Haldicott  in  that  look — the  appeal 
of  incompetence.  But  there  was  more  in  it: 
suffering  and  shame,  and  a  strength  that  strove 
to  hide  them  from  him. 

"Perhaps,  my  dear  Ainslie,  you  had  better 
go,"  said  Haldicott,  "for  the  present  at  least." 
But,  in  its  wonder,  his  answering  look  now  ap- 
pealed and  was  helpless  in  its  incomprehen- 
sion. 

Ainslie  stared  at  her. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  at  last. 

"Oh,  good-bye,"  said  Allida,  with  a  fervor  of 
relief  that  all  her  humility  and  pity  could  not 
dissemble. 

"Good-bye,"  he  repeated,  holding  her  hand, 
"sweet,  strange,  cruel  Allida." 

She  put  her  hand  over  his  and  looked  clearly 
at  him. 


176  THE  SUICIDE 

"Remember,"  she  said — "remember  how 
absurd  I  am." 

He  was  gone.  Allida  did  not  turn  to  Hal- 
dicott.  She  remained  looking  at  the  door  that 
had  closed  on  the  exit  of  her  "best  beloved." 

"But  why?"  said  Haldicott.  He  repeated 
Ainslie's  broken  words  almost  faintly.  "When 
the  dream  came  true — why  didn't  you  take  it  ?" 

She  made  no  reply. 

"I  never  meant  that  because  it  had  been  a 
dream  it  couldn't  become  a  reality,"  he  went 
on. 

She  looked  vaguely  round  the  room.  In- 
deed, things  swam  to  her;  the  nearest  support 
was  the  mantelpiece.  She  leaned  against  it, 
looking  down. 

"It's  not  anything  I  said — in  my  efforts  to 
shake  you  awake  ?  You  were  in  love  with  him, 
you  know.  Weren't  you  in  love  with  him,  Al- 
lida?" 

"Yes ;  I  suppose  so.  How  can  I  tell  you  any- 
thing? All  I  know  is  that  I  was  dreaming." 

"But — why  did  the  dream  go?" 

"You  killed  it,  perhaps,"  she  said  in  a  colour- 
less voice,  leaning  her  forehead  upon  her  hand, 
and  still  looking  fixedly  down. 

"I — /  killed  it?  You  mean — that  any  one 
who  had  come  then — would  have  stopped  you 


THE  SUICIDE  177 

— made  you  see  your  own  folly — waked  you?" 

"They  might  have  stopped  me — they  might 
have  saved  me,"  she  said,  and  she  paused. 

"But  only  I  could  wake  you?  Only  I  could 
prevent  the  coming  true  of  your  dream?" 
Again  in  his  wondering,  groping  voice  was  the 
feeling  that,  like  a  torch,  had  led  her  up  from 
Tartarus — up  through  blackness  to  the  sweet 
air  again. 

She  still  hid  her  eyes,  not  daring  to  look  or 
trust. 

"Allida !"  he  supplicated. 

"Oh,"  she  said  in  a  voice  so  low  that  it  did 
not  shake — it  was  as  if  she  just  dared  to  let  it 
sound  at  all — "was  your  dream  true,  or  was  it 
only  the  rope  you  threw  out  to  me  to  drag  me 
on  shore  with?" 

Haldicott  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"Do  you  mean  that  my  three  hours  of  reality 
count  for  more  than  his — than  his,  backed  by 
your  whole  year  of  dreaming  ?  Allida,  are  you 
really  absurd  enough  to  say  that  I  count  for 
more  than  Oliver  Ainslie  ?" 

She  put  her  weary,  ashamed  head  down  on 
the  arm  that  leaned  upon  the  mantelpiece.  She 
did  not  take  his  hand. 

"What  can  I  say?  Everything  I  say  seems 
unbelievable.  Can  anything  I  say  be  more 


178  THE  SUICIDE 

absurd  than  anything  else  ?  Yes,  you  do  count 
for  more.  You  count  for  everything.  Did  I 
love  him — or  did  I  only  love  love?  I  don't 
know.  I  only  know  that  what  you  said — and 
are — made  it  all  a  dream.  And  now  you  will 
think  that  I  am  going  to  kill  myself  because  you 
don't  love  me!  But  my  absurdity  is  over,  I 
promise  you.  Really,  I  am  awake." 

"Allida,  darling,"  said  Haldicott — he  went  to 
her  and  took  both  her  hands,  so  that  she  must 
raise  her  head  and  look  at  him — "if  I've  made 
fun  of  you  when  I  was  feeling  horribly  fright- 
ened, and  called  you  ridiculous  when  I  found 
you  as  tragic  and  adorable  as  you  were  gro- 
tesque, that  was  the  rope.  Now  I  will  take  an 
hour,  or  a  day,  or  a  whole  week,  if  necessary, 
to  make  you  believe  it;  but  I  could  have  com- 
mitted suicide — I  assure  you  I  could — when  I 
saw  Oliver  Ainslie  come  into  the  room." 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 


A    FORSAKEN    TEMPLE 

CHAPTER    I 

MILLY 

IT  is  the  emptiness,  the  loneliness,  the  lack 
of  response  and  understanding,"  said 
Milly.  "It  is  as  if  I  were  always  looking  at  a 
face  that  never  really  saw  me  or  spoke  to  me. 
Such  a  mistake  as  I  have  made — or  as  others 
have  made  for  me — is  irretrievable.  An  un- 
happy marriage  seems  to  ruin  everything  in 
you  and  about  you,  and  you  have  to  go  on  living 
among  the  ruins.  You  can't  go  away  and  leave 
them  behind  you,  as  you  can  other  calamities  in 
life." 

Milly  Quentyn  and  Mrs.  Drent  were  alone 
this  afternoon  in  the  country-house  where 
they  had  come  really  to  know  each  other,  and 
Milly,  acting  hostess  for  her  absent  cousin, 
had  poured  out  Mrs.  Drent's  tea  and  then 
her  own,  leaving  it  untouched,  however, 

181 


182          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

while  she  spoke,  her  hands  falling,  clasped 
together,  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  fived  on  va- 
cancy. The  contemplation  of  ruins  for  the 
last  five  years  had  filled  these  eyes  with  a 
pensive  resignation;  but  they  showed  no  tear- 
ful repinings,  no  fretful  restlessness.  They 
were  clear  eyes,  large  and  luminous,  and  in  look- 
ing at  them  and  at  the  wan,  lovely  little  face 
where  they  bloomed  like  melancholy  flowers, 
Mrs.  Drent's  face,  on  the  other  side  of  the  tea- 
table,  grew  yet  more  sombre  and  more  intent 

in  its  brooding  sympathy.     "Why  did  you " 

she  began,  and  then  changed  the  first  intention 
of  her  question  to — "Why  did  you — love  him?" 
This  was  more  penetrating  than  to  ask  Mrs. 
Quentyn  why  she  had  married  him. 

The  extreme  lowness  of  Mrs.  Drent's  voice 
muffled,  as  it  were,  its  essential  harshness ;  one 
felt  in  it  the  effort  to  be  soft,  as  in  her  one  felt 
effort,  always,  to  quell  some  latent  fierceness,  an 
eager,  almost  savage  energy.  She  was  thirty 
years  old,  six  years  older  than  Milly  Quentyn. 
Her  skin  was  swarthy,  her  eyes,  under  broad, 
tragically  bent  eyebrows,  were  impenetrably 
black.  Her  features,  had  they  not  been  so 
small,  so  finely  finished,  would  have  seemed  too 
emphatic,  significant  as  they  were  of  a  race- 
horse nervousness  and  of  something  inflexible 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          183 

in  the  midst  of  an  expression  all  flexibility. 
Her  hands  were  curiously  slight  and  small,  and 
as  she  now,  in  looking  at  her  companion  and 
in  asking  her  question,  locked  them  together 
with  a  force  that  made  them  tremble,  they 
showed  the  same  combination  of  an  excessive 
strength  informing  an  excessive  fragility. 

Milly  Quentyn's  gaze  drifted  to  her  and 
rested  upon  her  in  silence. 

Presently  she  smiled. 

"How  kind  you  are  to  care  so  much,  to  care 
at  all!" 

"I  do  care." 

"Are  you,  will  you,  be  my  friend,  always?" 
asked  Milly,  leaning  towards  her  a  little,  and  the 
smile  seemed  to  flutter  to  the  other  woman  like 
an  appealing  and  grateful  kiss. 

"I  am  your  friend ;  I  will  be  your  friend,  al- 
ways," Mrs.  Drent  replied,  in  an  even  lower 
tone  than  before. 

The  tears  came  softly  into  Milly' s  eyes  while 
they  looked  at  each  other  she  gently,  Mrs.  Drent 
still  sombrely.  Then  leaning  back  again  with 
a  sigh,  she  continued,  "Why  I  loved  him?  I 
didn't  love  him.  Isn't  that  the  almost  invari- 
able answer?  I  was  nineteen;  I  had  just  left 
the  schoolroom ;  I  was  in  love  with  my  own  ideal 
of  love — you  know,  you  must  know,  the  silly,  pa- 


184         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

thetic,  sentimental  and  selfish  mixture  one  is  at 
nineteen; — and  Mamma  said  that  he  was  that 
ideal;  and  he  said  nothing;  so  I  believed  her! 
Poor  Dick!  He  was  in  love,  I  think,  really,  and 
not  a  bit  with  himself,  and  with  only  enough 
articulateness  to  ask  me  to  marry  him;  and 
of  course  he  was,  and  is,  very  good-looking. 
You  know  Mamma.  She  has  married  us  all 
off  very  well,  they  say;  you  know  how  they 
say  it.  In  her  determination  to  ensconce  the 
family  type  comfortably  she  is  as  careless  of 
the  single  life  as  nature  itself.  In  this  case 
what  appeared  to  be  a  very  cosy  niche  of- 
fered itself  for  me  and  she  shoved  me  into 
it.  I  have  grown  up  since  then ;  that  is  all  my 
story." 

"They  are  terrible,  terrible,  such  mar- 
riages," said  Mrs.  Drent,  looking  away. 

Her  tone  struck  Milly,  with  all  her  con- 
sciousness of  pathos,  as  perhaps  a  little  mis- 
placed. "Terrible?  No,  hardly  that,  I  think. 
I  did  believe  that  I  loved  him.  He  did  love 
me." 

"You  were  a  child  who  did  not  know  herself, 
nor  what  she  was  doing." 

"Yes ;  that  is  true." 

"And  it  is  terrible  for  him  if  he  still  loves 
you." 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          185 

"Oh,"  said  Milly,  with  another  sigh,  "if  you 
can  call  it  love.  He  is  rather  dismayed  by 
the  situation;  sorry  that  we  don't  hit  it  off 
better,  as  he  would  express  it;  jocosely  re- 
signed to  what  he  would  call  my  unkindness 
and  queerness.  But  as  for  tragedy,  suffering; 
— one  can't  associate  such  perturbing  things 
with  imperturbable  Dick.  I  haven't  to  re- 
proach myself  with  having  hurt  his  life  seri- 
ously, and,  Heaven  knows!  I  don't  reproach 
his  simplicity  and  harmlessness  for  having 
broken  mine.  Marriage  and  a  wife  were  in- 
cidents— incidents  only — to  him,  and  if  they 
have  failed  to  be  satisfactory  incidents,  he  has 
other  far  more  absorbing  interests  in  his  life 
to  take  his  mind  off  the  breakdown  of  his  do- 
mestic happiness.  Indeed,  domesticity,  when 
he  cares  to  avail  himself  of  it,  is  always  there 
in  its  superficial  forms  and  ceremonies.  I 
can't  pretend  to  love  him,  but  I  take  care  of  his 
money  and  his  house,  I  entertain  his  friends, 
I  give  him  his  tea  at  breakfast  and  a  decorous 
kiss  when  he  comes  back  from  shooting  ani- 
mals in  some  savage  country.  One  could 
hardly  call  us  separated,  so  discreetly  do  I 
bridge  the  chasm  with  all  the  conventional 
observances.  Thank  Heaven!  the  shooting  is 
his  one  great  passion,  so  that  he  is  usually 


i86         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

wandering  happily  in  distant  jungles  and  not 
requiring  too  many  tete-d-tetes  at  breakfast 
of  me." 

"He  is  probably  very  good  and  kind,"  said 
Mrs.  Drent,  "but  it  is  incredible  that  such  a 
man  should  be  married  to  such  a  woman  as 
you." 

Again  Milly  gazed  for  a  moment,  aware  of 
inappropriateness.  "You  have  a  very  high 
ideal  of  marriage,  haven't  you?"  she  said. 
Mrs.  Drent's  husband  had  died  five  years  be- 
fore, and  her  baby  when  it  was  born.  She 
wore  black,  exquisite  and  unobtrusive  always, 
and,  unobtrusively,  she  was  known  to  be  in- 
consolable. Yet  Milly  had  heard  it  whispered 
that  Gilbert  Drent  had  married  her  for  her 
money  and  that,  charming  person  though  he 
had  been,  she  had  passionately  idealized  him. 
There  was,  therefore,  with  these  memories  at 
the  back  of  her  mind,  something  painful  as 
well  as  pathetic  to  her  in  the  voice  in  which 
Mrs.  Drent,  crimsoning  deeply,  said:  "My 
own  marriage  was  ideal.  I  don't  understand 
marriage  unless  it  is  ideal." 

There  was  a  silence  after  that  for  a  moment 
and  then  Milly  said,  "It  must  be  wonderful  to 
have  such  a  memory.  All  I  know  is  that  I 
wish  with  all  my  heart  I  had  never  married 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          187 

Dick,  and  I  believe  with  all  my  heart  that  one 
shouldn't  marry  unless  everything  is  there." 

"That  is  it,"  said  Mrs.  Drent,  "everything 
must  be  there  for  it  to  be  right; — affinity,  and 
understanding,  and  devotion.  Some  women 
can  find  enough  in  the  mere  fact  of  a  home  and 
a  shared  life  to  be  satisfied  without  them;  but 
not  a  woman  like  you." 

"I  think  you  idealize  me,"  Milly  said  smiling 
a  little  sadly;  "but  I  believe  in  that  too.  I 
don't  claim  at  all  any  remarkable  individuality ; 
but  what  I  have  Dick  doesn't  understand  at 
all,  doesn't  even  see.  He  goes  blundering  about 
the  dullest,  most  distant  parks  and  preserves 
of  a  castle;  that  is  as  near  as  he  ever  gets  to 
the  castle,  such  as  it  is,  of  my  personality.  And 
he  doesn't  really  care  about  the  castle;  it, hardly 
worries  him  that  he  can't  find  it.  There  might 
be  wonderful  pictures  on  its  walls,  and  jewels 
in  its  cabinets,  and  music  in  its  chambers;  but 
even  if  he  got  inside  and  were  able  to  see  and 
hear,  he  wouldn't  care  a  bit  about  them;  he 
would  say:  'Awfully  nice/  and  look  for  the 
smoking-room.  And  there,"  said  Milly,  press- 
ing her  hands  together  while  her  eyes  filled  sud- 
denly with  tears,  "there  is  the  little  tragedy. 
For  of  course  every  woman  thinks  that  she  has 
pictures  and  jewels  and  music  and  longs — oh 


i88         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

longs ! — to  show  them  to  the  one,  the  one  person 
who  will  love  to  see  and  hear.  And  when  she 
finds  that  no  one  sees  or  hears,  or  knows,  even, 
that  there  is  anything  to  look  for,  then  the  music 
dies,  and  the  pictures  fade,  and  the  jewels  grow 
dim,  and  at  last  everything  magical  vanishes 
from  life  and  she  sees  herself,  not  as  an  en- 
chanted castle,  but  as  a  first-class  house  in  May- 
fair,  with  all  the  latest  improvements; — as 
much  a  matter  of  course,  as  much  a  convenience, 
as  unmysterious  and  as  unalluring  as  the  tele- 
phone, the  hot  water  pipes  and  the  electric  light- 
ing. It  is  only  as  if  in  a  dream — a  far,  far 
dream — that  she  remembers  the  castle,  and 
feels,  sometimes,  within  her,  the  ruins,  the 
empty  ruins." 

"Oh — my  dear!"  breathed  Mrs.  Drent.  It 
was  as  if  she  couldn't  help  it,  as  if,  shaken  from 
her  passionate  reserve,  she  must  show  her  very 
heart.  She  leaned  round  the  table  and  took  one 
of  Milly's  hands.  "Don't — don't  let  the  magic 
vanish!  There's  nothing  else  in  life!  All  the 
rest  is  death.  It's  only  when  we  are  in  the 
castle — with  our  music  and  our  pictures  and  our 
jewels — that  we  are  alive.  You  know  it;  you 
feel  it;  it's  what  makes  the  difference  between 
the  real  and  the  unreal  people.  You  are  one  of 
the  real  ones,  I  saw  it  at  once ;  you  aren't  meant 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          189 

to  wither  out  and  to  become  crisp  and  shallow. 
Don't  cease  to  believe  in  the  pictures,  the  jewels, 
the  music.  They  are  there.  /  see.  /  hear." 

"How — sweet  of  you !"  faltered  Milly. 

She  was  startled,  she  was  touched,  she,  who 
rarely  felt  it,  felt  shyness.  She  had  known  that 
this  dark,  still  woman  was  observing  her,  and 
had  known,  for  all  the  other's  reserve,  that  the 
observation  was  not  antagonistic.  Something 
in  Mrs.  Drent  had  made  her  feel  that  it  would  be 
easy,  a  relief,  to  talk  to  her  about  all  one's 
miseries  and  desolations.  But  the  sudden  leap 
of  spiritual  fire  found  her  unprepared.  She 
was  a  little  ashamed,  as  though  her  own  reality 
were  somewhat  unreal  beside  Mrs.  Drent's  be- 
lief in  it.  There  had  been  something  pleasant 
in  the  tracing  of  her  little  tragedy,  something 
sweet  in  the  thought  of  that  sad  castle  of  her 
soul,  with  its  stilled  music,  its  fading  enchant- 
ments ;  but  Mrs.  Drent  had  seen  only  the  trag- 
edy; and  had  felt  the  danger  of  withering,  of 
becoming  acquiescent  and  commonplace,  with 
an  intensity  of  which  she  herself  was  incapa- 
ble. Such  response,  such  understanding, 
might  well  take  one's  breath  away. 

This  scene  was  the  beginning  of  their  long 
friendship.  It  was  a  charming  friendship. 
Milly  Quentyn,  for  all  the  clouds  of  her  back- 


190         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

ground,  was  a  creature  of  sunshine,  of  sun- 
shine in  a  mist,  a  creature  of  endearing 
fluctuations.  Indeed,  Christina  told  her  after- 
wards, when  they  analyzed  the.  beginnings,  it 
had  been  her  childlike  radiance,  her  smiles,  her 
air  as  of  rifts  of  blue  over  a  rainy  landscape — 
(for  everybody  knew  that  Dick  and  Milly  Quen- 
tyn  didn't  hit  it  off) — it  had  been  these  sweet, 
these  doubly  pathetic  qualities  that  had  first  at- 
tracted her.  "I  am  not  easily  attracted,"  said 
Christina.  "Had  there  been  a  languishing  hint 
of  the  femme  incomprise  about  you,  any  air  of 
self-pity,  I  should  never  have  so  longed  to  take 
care  of  you,  to  try  to  help  to  make  you  hap- 
pier. But  you  were  made  for  happiness  and 
beauty,  and  if  you  didn't  succeed  in  keeping 
them  one  saw  that  it  would  hurt  you  dreadfully. 
It  was  that  that  so  appealed." 

And  Milly  confessed  to  Christina  that  she 
had  been  at  first  a  good  deal  afraid  of  her,  as 
the  distinguished  young  poetess,  and  had 
thought  of  her  as  a  sombre  and  humourless 
little  personage,  only  reassuring  in  being  so  en- 
chantingly  well-dressed. 

In  Christina  Drent's  poetry  the  numbness 
that  had  descended  upon  her  after  her  hus- 
band's death  had  found  a  partial  awakening. 
The  poems  were  not  great  things,  but  they 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          191 

were  written  without  a  touch  of  artifice.  They 
were  sudden,  spontaneous  and  swift,  and  it  was 
as  if,  in  reading  them,  one  heard  a  distant  wail 
or  saw  across  a  bleak  sky  the  flight  of  an  un- 
known bird.  In  her  own  little  world  of  fashion 
they  had  made  her  a  tolerably  famous  figure. 
But  it  was  an  echo  only  of  her  regrets  and 
longings  that  Christina  was  able  to  put  into 
her  poems,  all  perhaps  that  she  chose  to  put; 
they  were  never  intimate  or  personal.  The 
essence  of  her  was  that  passionate  reserve  and, 
with  it,  that  passionate  longing  to  devote  her- 
self, lavishly,  exclusively,  upon  one  idolized 
and,  inevitably,  idealized  object.  She  was  full 
of  a  fervour  of  faith,  once  the  reserve  was 
broken  down,  and  her  idol,  high  on  a  pedestal 
in  its  well-built  temple,  was  secure  henceforth 
from  overthrow. 

Such  an  idol  her  husband  had  been.  Such 
an  idol  her  child  would  have  been.  The  doors 
of  that  sanctuary  were  sealed  for  ever,  the 
sacred  emptiness  for  ever  empty;  Christina 
could  never  have  remarried.  But  beside  it  rose 
a  second  temple,  only  less  fair,  and  in  it,  lovingly 
enshrined,  stood  Milly  Quentyn. 

Happily  Milly  was  an  idol  worthy  of  ideali- 
zation, perhaps  even  worthy  of  temple-building. 
She  was  sweet  and  tender,  in  friendship  most 


192          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

upright  and  loyal.  She  loved  to  be  loved,  to 
see  her  own  tenderness  blossom  about  her  in 
responsive  tenderness.  She  was  not  vain,  but 
she  loved  those  she  cared  for  to  find  her  ex- 
quisite, and  to  show  her  that  they  did.  Like 
a  frail  flower,  unvisited  by  sunlight,  she  could 
hardly  live  without  other  lives  about  her,  forti- 
fying, expanding  her  own.  Her  disappoint- 
ment in  her  husband  had  turned  to  something 
like  a  wan  disgust.  His  crude  appreciations  of 
her,  which,  in  the  first  girlish  trust  of  her  mar- 
ried life,  she  had  taken  as  warrant  of  all  the 
subtle,  manifold  appreciations  that  she  needed, 
were  now  offences.  Poor  Dick  Quentyn  blun- 
dered deeper  and  deeper  into  the  quagmire  of 
his  wife's  disdain.  His  was  a  boyish,  unex- 
acting  nature.  He  asked  for  no  great  things, 
and  the  lack  of  even  small  mercies  left  him 
serene.  As  he  had  never  thought  about  him- 
self at  all,  it  did  not  surprise  him  that  his 
wife  thought  very  little  of  him;  he  did  not, 
because  of  it,  think  less  well  of  himself.  Milly's 
indifference  argued  in  her  a  difference  from 
most  women,  facilely  contented  as  they  usually 
seemed.  It  did  not  change  or  harm  him  or 
make  him  either  assertive  or  self-conscious. 

He  had  soon  discovered  that  the  things  he 
cared  to  talk  about  wearied  her — sport,  the 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          193 

estate,  very  uncomplex  politics  or  very  uncom- 
plex  books;  and  after  a  little  while  he  discov- 
ered, further,  that  for  him  to  try  to  adapt 
himself  to  her,  to  try  to  talk  about  the  things 
she  cared  for,  exasperated  her.  She  listened, 
indeed,  with  a  bleak  patience,  while  he  admired, 
with  a  genial  endeavour  to  do  the  right  thing, 
all  the  wrong  pictures  at  the  shows  where  they 
went  together.  She  sat  silent,  her  eyes  aloof, 
dimly  smiling,  while  he  tried  to  win  her  interest 
in  a  very  jolly  book, — watered  Dumas,  as  a 
rule,  decantered  into  modern  bottles.  He  saw 
that  she  made  an  effort  to  care  about  the  big 
game  he  shot — the  hall  and  dining-room  bris- 
tled with  trophies,  one  walked  over  them  every- 
where— and  she  looked  at  pictures  of  them  in 
the  books  of  travel  he  eagerly  put  before  her; 
but  it  was  as  pictures  that  they  interested  her, 
remotely,  not  as  animals  suitable  for  shoot- 
ing. 

Dick  Quentyn,  with  an  unmysterious,  undiffi- 
cult  wife,  could  have  been  a  very  gracefully 
affectionate  husband;  his  manners  were  as 
charming  as  his  mind  was  blundering ;  but  with 
this  chill  young  nymph  any  attempt  at  marital 
pettings  and  caressings  seemed  clumsy  and 
grotesque.  With  Milly,  he  soon  felt  it,  the 
barrier  between  their  minds  was  inevitably  a 


194          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

barrier  shutting  him  out  from  even  these  mani- 
festations of  tenderness.  He  was  not  at  all 
dull  in  feeling  that ;  not  at  all  dull  in  his  quick 
withdrawal  before  her  passive  distaste ;  not  dull 
in  knowing  that  if  he  were  not  to  withdraw 
the  distaste  would  become  more  than  negative. 
He  had  now,  cheerfully,  it  seemed,  recognized 
that  his  marriage  was  a  failure  and,  as  Milly 
had  said,  it  did  not  seem,  after  an  unpleasant 
wrench  or  two  when  he  did  show  an  uncon- 
trollable grimace  of  pain,  to  make  very  much 
difference  to  him.  She  endured  him;  she  did 
not  dislike  him  at  all — at  a  distance ;  and,  very 
gaily,  with  a  debonair  manner  of  perfect  trust, 
he  kept  at  a  distance.  He  travelled  constantly, 
and  it  was  rarely  that  he  required  her  to  pour 
out  his  tea  for  him. 

Milly  poured  out  his  tea  for  a  fortnight  dur- 
ing Christina's  first  visit  to  Chawlton  House, 
the  Quentyns'  country-place.  Christina  looked 
forward  to  meeting  her  friend's  inappropriate 
husband  almost  with  trembling.  She  felt  that 
she  might  be  called  to  the  great  and  happy 
mission  of  reconciliation,  that  Milly  might  have 
been  mistaken  and  Dick  undervalued.  Milly's 
trust  in  her  and  dependence  upon  her  had  grown 
with  leaps  and  bounds,  and  she  hoped  that  with 
tact  and  time  she  might  do  much  to  rebuild 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          195 

the  broken  life,  if  there  were  materials  with 
which  to  build  it.  The  first  glance  at  Dick 
showed  her  the  futility  of  such  hopes.  He  was 
a  dear;  that  at  once  was  obvious  to  her;  and 
he  was  delightful  looking;  his  small  head  well 
set  on  broad  shoulders,  his  short  nose  expressive 
of  courage  and  character ;  his  grey  eyes  as  free 
from  all  malice  and  uncharitableness  as  they 
were  from  introspection.  But  he  was  a  boy,  a 
kind,  good  boy,  an  ingenuous,  well-mannered 
materialist,  living,  as  it  were,  by  automatic 
functions,  and  as  incapable  of  spiritual  initia- 
tive as  he  was  of  evil.  What  ground  of 
meeting  could  there  be  between  him  and  her 
Milly,  compact  as  she  was  of  subtleties,  pro- 
fundities and  possibilities?  No;  Dick  offered 
no  materials  for  the  building  of  a  shrine,  and 
unless  marriage  was  a  shrine  Christina  could 
not  contemplate  it.  There  had  been  a  deep  in- 
stinct, like  one  of  nature's  cruel  yet  righteous 
laws,  in  Milly's  withdrawal ;  to  have  consented, 
to  have  compromised,  would  have  been  to  stifle 
and  stultify  herself. 

Christina  so  justified  her,  and  yet  it  pained 
her  that  Milly,  in  her  treatment  of  her  husband, 
should  be  almost  unbeautiful.  The  streak  of 
hardness,  almost  of  cruelty,  like  nature's  own, 
showing  itself  in  her  darling,  distressed  her. 


196         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

She  did  not  care  so  much  about  Dick's  very 
problematic  discomfort.  He  showed  none;  he 
talked  with  great  good  spirits,  made  cheerful, 
obvious  jokes  and  looked  eminently  sane,  fresh 
and  picturesque  in  his  out-of-door  attire.  Yet 
even  he  must  know  that  every  fibre  of  Milly's 
face,  every  tone  of  her  voice,  expressed  her 
indifference  and  her  oppression.  "Really,  dear, 
you  are  not  kind,"  Christina  protested.  Milly 
opened  innocent  eyes.  "You  think  I'm  wrong 
about  Dick?" 

"Not  wrong  about  him;  wrong  to  him. 
Surely,  just  because  you  are  so  right  in  what 
you  feel  to  be  impossibility,  you  can  afford  to 
be  kind." 

"You  think  I  behave  badly  to  Dick?  Oh, 
Christina ! — you  are  displeased  with  me  ?" 

They  were  very  sincere  with  each  other, 
these  two,  and  bared  their  souls  to  each  other 
relentlessly. 

"Only  because  you  are  so  dear  to  me,  Milly." 
Mrs.  Drent  flushed  a  little  as  she  looked  ten- 
derly at  her  friend.  "Only  because  I  want  to 
see  you  always  right,  exquisitely  right.  You 
make  me  uncomfortable  when  you  are  not.  He 
has  done  you  no  wrong.  Why  should  you  treat 
him  as  you  did  this  morning,  using  me  as  a 
foil  to  show  him  his  own  stupidity?  Not  that 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          197 

I  do  find  him  stupid,  Milly;  only  very,  very 
simple." 

"I  know  it !  Oh,  I  know  it !"  Milly  wailed. 
"If  only  he  had  done  me  a  wrong  it  would  be 
so  much  easier!  He  irritates  me  so  unspeak- 
ably, and  I  seem  to  feel  it  more,  now  that  I 
have  you.  That  laboured  chaffing  of  you  at 
breakfast — how  could  you  have  borne  it?  I 
can't  pretend  amusement,  and  chaff  is  his  only 
conception  of  human  intercourse.  I  know  I'm 
horrid — I  know  it;  but  it  is  the  long,  long  ac- 
cumulations of  repressed  exasperation  that 
have  made  me  so — worse  than  exasperations. 
I  remember,  during  the  first  months  of  our 
married  life,  when  I  was  becoming  dreadfully 
frightened,  catching  glimpses  on  every  side  of 
my  awful  mistake — I  remember  once  kissing 
him  and  saying  something  playful  that  hid  an 
appeal  for  comfort,  comprehension,  reassur- 
ance. And  do  you  know,  he  answered  me 
with  a  chaffing  jest — a  stupid,  stupid  jest — 
some  piece  of  would-be  gallant  folly.  It  was 
like  a  dagger!" 

"Perhaps  it  pleased  him  so  much,  your  kiss- 
ing him,  that  it  made  him  shy,"  Christina  sug- 
gested, but  Milly  said: — "Dick  shy!  Oh  no, 
he  is  not  sensitive  enough  for  shyness.  He 
doesn't  feel  things  at  all  as  you,  with  your 


198          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

exquisiteness,  imagine.  He  isn't  shy  at  all, 
and  I'm  afraid  he  is  sometimes  immensely,  hid- 
eously stupid." 

After  all,  as  Christina  came  to  see,  Dick's 
inevitable  loss  was  her  own  gain.  Milly,  who 
could  not  be  her  husband's,  was  hers,  almost 
as  a  child  might  have  been.  Christina,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  knew  the  intoxicating 
experience  of  being  sought  out  and  needed.  It 
was  Milly  who  turned  to  her;  Milly  who  put 
out  appealing  hands,  like  a  lonely  child;  who 
nestled  her  head  on  her  shoulder,  contentedly 
sighing,  as  she  begged  her  please,  please  not 
to  go  until  she  had  to — and  couldn't  she, 
wouldn't  she,  stay  on  until  the  winter? 

Why  shouldn't  she?  Her  own  life  was 
empty.  It  ended  in  her  passing  most  of  the 
winter  with  Milly  in  the  country  after  Dick 
had  gone  off  to  India.  It  was  a  blissful  winter, 
the  happiest,  in  reality,  that  Christina  had  ever 
known,  though  she  was  not  aware  of  this  nor 
aware  that  it  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that 
she  was  the  recipient  of  as  much  devotion  as  she 
gave.  They  read  and  rode  and  walked  and 
talked  and  carried  on  energetic  reforms  and 
charities  in  the  village.  Christina  was  full  of 
ardent  enthusiasms  which  infected  Milly.  In 
spite  of  her  physical  delicacy,  for  she  had  a 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          199 

weak  heart,  she  showed  an  enterprise  and  en- 
durance that  Milly  was  not  capable  of.  The 
winter  went  by  and  life  was  full  of  signifi- 
cance. 

Then  Christina  asked  Milly  to  come  and  stay 
with  her  in  London  for  the  spring,  and  so,  by 
degrees,  they  both  came  to  think  of  home  as 
the  being  together.  Christina's  little  house  in 
Sloane  Street  became  a  centre  of  discriminating 
hospitality;  they  had  an  equal  talent  for  se- 
lection and  recognition,  and  Milly  possessed 
the  irradiating  attractive  qualities  that  Chris- 
tina lacked.  Together  they  became  something 
of  a  touchstone  for  the  finer,  more  recondite  ele- 
ments in  the  vortex  of  the  larger  London  life. 
All  their  people  seemed  to  come  to  them  through 
some  pleasant  affinity,  the  people  who  had  done 
clever  things ;  the  people  who,  better  still,  shone 
only  with  latent  possibilities  and  were  the 
richer  for  their  reticences;  and  dear,  comfort- 
able, unexacting  people  who  were  not  partic- 
ularly clever,  but  responsive,  appreciative  and 
genuine. 

Christina  still  wrote  a  little,  but  not  so  much. 
She  and  Milly  studied  and  travelled  and,  in  the 
country,  at  the  proper  seasons,  rusticated. 
With  all  its  harmony,  their  life  did  not  want 
its  more  closely  knitting  times  of  fear,  as  when 


200         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

Milly  was  dangerously  ill  and  Christina  nursed 
her  through  the  long  crisis,  or  when  Christina's 
heart  showed  alarming  symptoms  and  hurried 
them  away  to  German  specialists. 

There  were  funny  little  quarrels,  too,  funny 
to  look  back  upon,  though  very  painful  at  the 
moment;  for  Milly  could  be  fretful,  and  Chris- 
tina violent  in  reproach.  The  swift  reconcili- 
ations atoned  for  all,  when,  holding  each  other's 
hands,  they  laughed  at  each  other,  each  eager 
to  take  the  blame.  Certain  defects  they  came 
to  recognize  and  to  take  into  account,  tolerant, 
loving  comprehension,  the  ripest  stage  of  affec- 
tion, seeming  achieved.  Milly  was  capricious, 
had  moods  of  gloom  and  disconsolateness  when 
nothing  seemed  to  interest  her,  neither  books 
nor  music  nor  people,  not  even  Christina,  and 
when,  sunken  in  a  deep  armchair,  she  would 
listlessly  tap  her  fingers  on  the  chair-arms,  her 
eyes  empty  of  all  but  a  monotonous  melancholy. 
These  moods  always  hurt  Christina, — Milly 
herself  seemed  hardly  aware  of  them,  certainly 
was  not  aware  of  their  hurting, — and  she  hid 
the  hurt  in  a  gentle  sympathy  that  averted 
tactful  eyes  from  her  friend's  retirement.  But 
she  did  not  quite  understand;  for  she  never 
wished  to  retire  into  herself  and  away  from 
Milly. 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         201 

And  Milly  discovered  that  Christina  could 
be  unreasonable — so  she  tolerantly  termed  a 
smouldering  element  in  her  friend's  nature; 
Christina,  in  fact,  could  be  fiercely  jealous. 
They  shared  all  their  friends,  many  of  them 
dear  friends,  but  dear  on  a  certain  level,  below 
the  illuminated  solitude  where  they  two  stood 
in  their  precious  isolation.  And  Milly  pro- 
tested to  herself  that  she  was  the  last  person  to 
wish  that  isolation  disturbed.  No  one  knew 
her,  understood  her,  helped  and  loved  her  as 
Christina  did;  there  was  no  one  like  Christina, 
no  one  so  strong,  so  generous,  so  large-natured. 
Why  then  should  Christina,  like  a  foolish 
school-girl,  show  unmistakably — her  efforts  to 
hide  it  only  making  her  look  dim-eyed,  white- 
lipped — a  sombre  misery  if  Milly  allowed  any- 
one to  absorb  her?  This  really  piteous 
infirmity  was  latent  in  Christina;  she  did  not 
show  it  at  all  during  the  first  years  of  their 
companionship;  it  grew  with  her  growing  de- 
votion to  Milly.  Milly  discovered  it  when  she 
asked  little  Joan  Ashby  to  go  to  Italy  with 
them.  Christina,  at  the  proposal,  had  been  all 
glad,  frank  acquiescence.  Unsuspectingly 
Milly  petted  and  made  much  of  the  girl  whose 
adoration  was  sweet  to  her.  She  went  about 
with  her  sight-seeing,  when  Christina  said  that 


202          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

she  was  tired  and  did  not  care  to  see  things,  not 
remembering  that  when  they  were  alone  to- 
gether Christina  had  never  seemed  tired.  She 
laughed  and  talked  till  all  hours  of  the  night 
with  Joan,  when  Christina  had  gone  to  bed 
saying  that  she  was  sleepy.  All  had  seemed 
peaceful  and  normal.  Milly  was  stupefied 
when,  by  degrees,  a  consciousness  of  a  differ- 
ence in  Christina  crept  upon  her. 

Christina  smiled  much,  was  alert,  crisply  re- 
sponsive ;  but  ice  was  in  the  smile,  the  response 
was  galvanized.  She  was  suffering — the  reali- 
zation rushed  upon  Milly  once  her  innocent 
eyes  were  opened,  and  all  her  strength  went  to 
hiding  the  suffering.  Milly,  watching,  felt 
a  helpless  alarm,  really  a  shyness,  gaining  upon 
her  in  the  face  of  this  development.  She  found 
Christina  sobbing  in  her  room  one  night  when 
she  cut  short  her  talk  with  Joan  and  came  upon 
her  unexpectedly. 

Milly's  tender  heart  rose  at  a  bound  over 
alarm  and  shyness.  But  when  she  ran  to  her, 
Christina  pushed  her  fiercely  away.  "You 
know !  Of  course  you  know !  Go  back  to  her 
if  you  like  her  better !" 

She  was  like  a  frantic  child.  Milly  could 
have  laughed,  had  not  the  exhibition  in  her 
grave,  staunch  Christina  frightened  her  too 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          203 

much,  made  her  too  terribly  sorry  and  almost 
ashamed  for  her. 

Later,  when  Christina,  laughing  quiveringly 
at  her  own  folly,  yet  confessing  her  own  power- 
lessness  before  it,  put  her  arms  around  her  neck 
and  begged  for  forgiveness,  Milly  in  all  her 
soft,  humorous  reproaches  daring  now  to  tease 
and  rally,  had  yet  the  chill  of  a  new  discovery 
to  reckon  with.  A  weight  seemed  to  have  come 
upon  her  as  she  realised  how  much  Christina 
cared.  It  was  as  if  Christina  had  confessed 
that  she  cared  so  much  more  than  she,  Milly, 
could  ever  do.  She  had  not  before  thought  of 
their  friendship  as  a  responsibility.  It  was  too 
dear,  and  silly  and  pathetic  in  Christina,  but 
it  seemed  to  manacle  her. 

She  must  be  very  careful  to  like  no  Joans  too 
much  in  the  future.  Christina  protested  pas- 
sionately that  she  must  talk  to  Joan  and  love 
Joan — any  number  of  Joans,  young  or  old,  male 
or  female,  as  much  as  before,  more  than  before, 
since  now  her  folly  was  dissipated  by  confes- 
sion ;  but  Milly  in  her  heart  knew  better  than  to 
believe  her.  She  filled  Christina's  life  com- 
pletely, to  the  exclusion  of  any  other  deep  affec- 
tion, and  Christina  could  never  be  happy  unless 
her  friend's  life  were  equally  undivided. 


CHAPTER  II 

DICK 

FOUR  years  passed,  and  during  them  Dick 
Quentyn  had  wandered  about  the  world, 
not  at  all  disconsolately.  He  spent  several 
seasons  with  friends  in  India ;  he  went  to  Can- 
ada and  to  Japan ;  when  he  came  home  he  filled 
his  time  largely  with  shooting  and  hunting. 

It  was  almost  as  a  guest  that,  in  the  country 
and  in  his  own  house,  he  passed  a  few  weeks 
with  Milly  and  Christina  and  entirely  as  a 
guest  that  he  dined  now  and  then  with  them  in 
London. 

It  was  a  rather  ludicrous  situation,  but  he 
did  not  seem  depressed  or  abashed  by  it. 
Christina  always  felt  that  by  some  boyish  in- 
tuition he  recognized  in  her  a  friendly  sym- 
pathy, a  sympathy  which  he  must  certainly  see 
as  terribly  detached,  since  it  was  she  who  had 
now  fixed  definitely  Milly's  removal  from  his 
life,  made  it  permanent  and  given  it  a  meaning. 
But  it  was  a  sympathy  very  friendly,  even 

slightly  humorous.     He  would  catch  her  dark 

204 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          205 

eyes  sometimes  as  he  sat,  a  guest  at  her  dinner- 
table — (he  never  took  Milly  in,  all  the  nega- 
tions of  married  life  were  still  his) — and  in 
them  he  saw  and  responded  to  an  almost  affec- 
tionate playfulness.  He  evidently  saw  the  joke 
and  it  amused  him.  Christina  often  reflected 
that  Dick  was  a  dear,  in  all  his  impossibility, 
and  that  Milly  was  not  nearly  nice  enough  to 
him.  But  Milly  was  nicer  than  she  had  been; 
the  new  effectiveness  and  happiness  of  her  own 
life  made  it  less  of  an  effort  to  be  so.  From 
her  illumined  temple  she  smiled  at  him,  a  smile 
that  gained  in  sweetness  and  lost  its  chill.  She 
handed  on  to  him  a  little  of  the  radiance. 

"Since  we  can't  hit  it  off  together,  Milly,  I 
must  say  there  is  no  one  you  could  have  chosen 
for  a  friend  that  I  could  have  liked  so  much  as 
Mrs.  Drent,"  Dick  said  to  his  wife  one  evening 
in  the  drawing-room  after  dinner.  They  often 
had  an  affable  chat  before  the  wondering  eyes 
of  the  world.  Milly  chatted  with  great  affa- 
bility. Dick,  as  Christina  so  often  reminded 
her,  was  a  dear.  No  one  could  have  less  sug- 
gested shackles. 

"Now,  Dick,"  she  said,  smiling,  "what  do 
you  find  to  like  in  Christina?"  Even  in  her 
new  tolerance  there  lurked  touches  of  the  old 
irrepressible  disdain. 


206          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

Dick,  twisting  his  moustache,  contemplated 
her.  "Do  you  mean  that  I'm  not  capable  of 
liking  anything  or  anybody  that  you  do?"  he 
inquired.  Milly  flushed,  though  the  mildness 
of  her  husband's  tone,  one  of  purely  impersonal 
interest,  suggested  no  conscious  laying  of  a 
coal  of  fire  upon  her  head.  It  was  what  she 
had  meant.  That  Dick  should  like  Christina, 
Christina  Dick,  was  wholly  delightful,  but  that 
Dick  should  seem  to  like  what  she  liked  for  the 
same  reasons  irked  her  a  little.  It  was  rather 
as  if  he  had  expressed  enthusiasms  about  her 
favourite  Brahms  Rhapsody.  She  rather 
wanted  to  show  him  that  any  idea  he  might 
entertain  of  a  community  of  tastes  was  illusory. 
How  could  Dick  like  a  Brahms  Rhapsody,  he 
whose  highest, ideals  of  music  were  of  some- 
thing sedative  after  a  day's  hard  riding?  And 
how  could  Dick  really  like  Christina?  If  he' 
really  did,  and  for  any  of  her  reasons,  there 
must  be  between  them  the  link,  if  ever  so  small 
a  one,  of  a  community  of  taste — a  link  that  she 
had  never  recognized. 

"I  think  that  we  could  only  like  the  same 
things  in  a  very  different  way,"  she  confessed. 
"Why  do  you  like  Christina  ?" 

He  did  not  reply  at  once,  and  she  went  on, 
looking  at  him,  smiling — they  were  sitting  side 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         207 

by  side  on  a  little  sofa;  "it  isn't  her  charm,  for 
you  think  her  ugly." 

"Yes;  she's  ugly  certainly,"  Dick  assented, 
quite  as  dully  as  she  had  hoped  he  would, 
"though  her  figure  is  rather  neat." 

Milly's  smile  shifted  to  its  habitual  kindly 
irony.  "She  is  subtle  and  delicate  and  sensi- 
tive," she  said,  rehearsing  to  herself  as  much 
as  to  him  all  the  reasons  why  Dick  could  not 
really  like  Christina.  "Her  truths  would  never 
blunder  and  her  silences  never  bore."  "As 
Dick's  did,"  was  in  her  mind.  It  was  cruel 
to  be  so  conscious  of  the  contrast  when  he 
looked  at  her  with  such  unconsciousness;  to 
reassure  herself  with  the  expression  of  it  was 
rather  like  mocking  something  blind  and  deaf 
and  trusting.  A  sudden  pity  confused  her, 
-and,  with  a  little  artificiality  of  manner  which 
masked  the  confusion,  she  went  on:  "One 
could  never  be  unhappy  without  her  knowing 
it,  and  then  one  would  be  glad  she  did  know, 
for  she  can  sympathise  without  hurting  you 
with  sympathy.  She  feels  everything  that  is 
beautiful  and  rare,  everything  that  is  sad  and 
tragic;  she  feels  everything  and  sees  every- 
thing, and  she  sees  and  feels  in  order  to  act, 
to  give,  to  help.  Is  it  all  this  you  like  in  her?" 
Milly  finished. 


208         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

Dick  Quentyn  still  looked  mildly  at  his  wife. 
"Yes;  I  suppose  so,"  he  said. 

"You  see  these  things  in  Christina?" 

"In  a  different  way,"  he  smiled.  It  was  al- 
most a  very  clever  smile. 

Milly  might  have  felt  startled  at  it  had  he 
not  gone  on  very  simply: — "One  sees  that  she 
is  such  a  thoroughly  good  sort;  so  loyal;  she 
would  go  through  thick  and  thin  for  anyone 
she  cared  about;  and  so  kind,  as  you  say;  she 
would  talk  as  nicely  to  a  dull  person  as  to  a 
clever  one;  she'd  never  snub  one  or  make  one 
feel  a  duffer." 

For  a  moment  Milly  was  silent.  "Do  you 
mean  that  I  used  to  snub  you — and  make  you 
feel  a  duffer?"  she  then  asked. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Milly!"  Dick,  genuinely  dis- 
tressed, looked  his  negative.  "You  didn't  sup- 


pose ?- 


"I  know  that  I  was  often  horrid." 
"Well,  if  you  were,  you  didn't  suppose  I'd 
tell  you  in  that  roundabout  fashion.     Besides, 
all  that's  done  with  long  ago."     He  looked 
away  from  her  now  and  down  at  the  floor. 

Again  Milly  was  silent.  Strangely  to  her- 
self, she  felt  her  eyes  fill  with  tears.  She 
waited  to  conquer  them  before  saying  very 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         209 

gently :     "Dick,  do  forgive  me  for  having  been 
so  horrid." 

He  stared  up  at  her.  "Forgive  you,  Milly?" 
The  request  seemed  to  leave  him  speechless. 

She  was  able  to  smile  at  him.     "You  do  ?" 

"You  never  were.  It's  more  to  the  point  for 
me  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

"For  what,  pray?"  She  had  to  control  a 
quiver  in  her  voice. 

"Oh — for  everything — for  being  so  wrong, 
so  altogether  the  wrong  person,  you  know," 
said  Dick,  smiling  too.  He  again  looked  away 
from  her,  across  the  room,  now,  at  Christina; 
and,  after  a  silence,  filled  for  Milly  with  per- 
plexing impulses,  he  added :  "But  the  real  rea- 
son I  like  her  so  much  is  that  she  is  so  tremen- 
dously fond  of  you." 

Milly  had  to  bring  her  thoughts  back  with 
an  effort  to  Christina ;  she  must  let  his  remark 
about  being  forgiven  remain  as  casual  as  he 
had  evidently  felt  it ;  and  it  was  something  else 
that  he  had  said  which  more  emphatically  held 
her  attention.  She  thought  of  it  all  the  even- 
ing, after  he  had  gone ;  and,  while  her  hair  was 
being  brushed,  she  looked  at  her  reflection  in 
the  mirror  and  saw  herself  in  that  time,  "long 

ago."     It  was  as  if  Dick  had  shown  her  a  dead 
14 


210          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

thing,  and  had  turned  the  key  on  it  with  his 
quiet  words  of  acquiescence. 

She  looked  in  the  mirror.  Surrounded  by 
the  softly  falling  radiance  of  her  hair,  her  face 
was  still  girlish  in  tint  and  outline ;  but  already 
her  eyes  had  in  them  the  depth  of  time  lived 
through,  her  cheeks  and  lips  were  differently 
sweet;  and  as  the  realization  of  time's  swift 
passage  stole  upon  her,  a  vague,  strong  pro- 
test filled  her,  a  sense  of  deep,  irremediable  dis- 
appointment with  life. 

Dick  Quentyn  went  that  winter  to  Africa, 
and  Milly  gave  her  husband  a  farewell  all 
kindness  and  composure,  when  he  came  to  bid 
Christina  and  her  good-bye.  Composure  was 
a  habit,  and  she  was  unaware  of  a  new  dis- 
content and  protest  that  stirred  beneath  it, 
though  aware  that  the  kindness  she  felt  for  her 
husband  was  greater  than  what  her  words  of 
farewell  expressed. 

Dick  always  wrote  punctually,  once  a  fort- 
night, to  his  wife,  short  bulletins,  to  which,  as 
accurately  and  as  laconically,  she  responded. 
This  winter  the  bulletins  were  often  delayed, 
sometimes  altogether  missing. 

Dick  had  joined  an  exploring  party,  and  his 
allusions,  by  the  way,  to  "Narrow  shaves," 
"Nasty  rows  with  natives,"  and  "A  rather 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          211 

beastly  fever,"  explained  these  irregularities. 

"He  really  ought  to  write  a  book  about  it. 
They  have  evidently  been  in  danger,  and  had 
an  heroic  time  of  it  altogether,"  Christina  said, 
during  a  sympathetic  perusal  of  these  docu- 
ments which  were  always  handed  on  to  her, 
as,  for  any  intimacy  they  contained,  they  might 
have  been  handed  on  to  anybody.  They  began 
—"Dear  Milly";  and  ended— "Yours  aff'ly,  D. 
Q."  The  "affectionately"  was  always  abbrevi- 
ated. 

"I  suppose  they  really  are  in  a  good  deal 
of  danger,"  said  Milly,  nibbling  at  her  toast, — 
they  were  at  breakfast. 

"That,  I  suppose,  was  what  they  went  for," 
Christina  replied,  her  eyes  passing  over  the 
letter. 

Milly,  leaning  her  elbow  on  the  table, 
watched  and  read.  "Poor  Dick!"  she  said 
presently. 

Christina  had  laid  down  the  letter  and  was 
going  on  with  her  coffee. 

"Why  poor,  dear  ?     It's  what  he  enjoys." 

"If  he  were  killed  to-morrow  I  suppose  it 
would  hardly  affect  us  more  than  the  death 
of  any  of  the  men  who  had  tea  here  yesterday." 

"Milly !"  said  Christina.  She  put  down  her 
cup. 


212          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

"Would  it?"  Milly  insisted.  "Would  you 
really  mind  more?" 

"Your  husband — my  child!"  This  elder- 
sister  mode  of  address  was  often  Christina's. 

"Why  should  a  husband  one  hasn't  been  able 
to  live  with  count  for  as  much  as  a  friend  one 
is  glad  to  see?" 

"Because  he  has  counted  for  so  much." 

"But,  Christina,  you  can't  deny  that  you 
would  hardly  be  sorry,  and  that  you  would  not 
expect  me  to  be  sorry — only  solemn." 

"I  should  expect  you  to  be  both." 

"Sorry  because  a  man  I  have  no  affection  for 
— a  man  I  have  almost  hated — is  dead?" 

"Yes;  if  only  for  those  reasons;  and  that  it 
should  be  only  for  those  reasons  is  what  you 
meant  when  you  said :  'Poor  Dick,'  "  Chris- 
tina demonstrated  with  an  air  of  finality  that 
showed  her  displeased  with  what  she  felt  to  be 
an  unbecoming  levity. 

Milly  was  thinner,  paler;  Christina  noticed 
that,  though  she  did  not  notice  how  often  she 
returned  to  the  subject  of  her  husband's  danger 
and  the  irony  of  her  own  indifference  to  it. 
And  Milly's  listless  moods  followed  one  other 
so  closely  this  winter  as  to  become  almost  per- 
manent. She  was  evidently  bored.  More  and 
more  frequently,  when  they  were  talking  over 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          213 

their  tete-a-tete  tea,  the  very  dearest  hour  of 
the  day,  Christina  saw  that  Milly  did  not  hear 
her.  After  these  four  years  of  comprehension 
and  mutual  forbearance  the  apparent  indif- 
ference or  preoccupation  could  not,  at  first, 
seriously  disturb  her;  hurt  her  it  always  did. 
Picking  up  a  book  she  would  read  and  cease  to 
talk.  The  mood  always  passed  the  sooner  for 
not  being  recognised,  and  Milly  would  come 
out  of  the  cloud,  unaware  of  it,  sunnier, 
sweeter,  more  responsive  than  before.  But 
this  winter  she  did  not  come  out.  That  she 
should  be  so  bored,  so  apathetic,  began  to  dis- 
turb as  well  as  to  hurt  Christina.  There  came 
a  quick  pulsing  of  fear;  did  some  new  attach- 
ment account  for  it?  Her  mind,  in  a  swift, 
flame-like  running  around  the  circle  of  possi- 
bilities, saw  them  all  as  impossibilities,  and  put 
the  fear  away. 

One  day,  taking  Milly's  face  between  her 
hands,  yet  feeling,  strangely,  a  sudden  shyness 
that  made  the  complete  confession  of  her  alarms 
too  difficult,  she  asked  her  if  she  were  un- 
happy. 

"Unhappy,  dear  Christina?  Why  should  I 
be?"  Milly  put  an  affectionate  arm  about  her 
friend's  neck. 

"But  are  you  ?     Is  there  anything  you  would 


214          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

like  to  do?  Anywhere  you  would  like  to  go? 
I  am  sure  that  you  are  frightfully  bored," 
Christina  smiled.  "Confess  that  you  are." 

"Have  I  seemed  bored  ?  No.  I  can't  think 
of  anything  that  would  interest  me.  One 
comes  on  these  Sahara-like  times  in  life,  you 
know — stretches  of  dull  sands.  Or  is  it  that 
I  am  getting  old,  Christina?" 

"You  old?     You,  child!" 

"I  feel  old,"  said  Milly.  "Really  old  and 
tired." 

Christina  still  smiled  at  her,  but  smiled  over 
a  sudden  choking  in  her  throat.  It  was  not 
sympathy  for  her  friend's  Weltschmertz;  it  was 
the  recognition  of  something  in  her  eyes,  her 
voice — something  she  could  not  analyze,  as  if 
a  faint  barrier  wavered,  impalpable,  formless, 
between  them,  and  as  if,  did  she  say  that  it 
was  there,  it  would  change  suddenly  to  stone 
and  perhaps  shut  her  out  for  ever. 

What  was  it  in  Milly  that  made  her  afraid 
that  to  cry  out  her  fears  might  make  them 
permanent?  She  battled  with  them  all  the 
winter.  They  had  arranged  to  go  to  Sicily 
and  Greece  for  the  spring,  and  Christina  looked 
forward  to  this  trip  as  a  definite  goal.  It  would 
break  the  spell,  turn  the  difficult  corner, — for 
all  her  fierce  idealism  she  was  too  wise  a  woman 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         215 

not  to  know  that  every  human  relation  must 
have  corners;  and,  indeed,  in  talking  over 
plans,  getting  up  information,  burnishing  his- 
torical memories,  Milly  showed  some  of  her  old 
girlish  eagerness.  She  and  Christina  even 
read  the  Greek  tragedies  over  together,  in 
order,  Milly  said,  that  they  should  steep  them- 
selves in  the  proper  atmosphere.  It  was  there- 
fore with  a  shock  of  bitter  surprise  and  dis- 
appointment that  Christina,  only  a  fortnight 
before  the  time  fixed  for  their  departure,  heard 
Milly  announce,  with  evident  openness,  though 
she  flushed  slightly,  that  she  thought  she  would 
rather  put  off  the  trip ;  she  would  rather  spend 
April  at  Chawlton ;  and,  at  once  going  on,  look- 
ing clearly  at  her  friend:  "You  see,  dear,  I 
have  just  had  a  letter  from  Dick.  He  gets 
back  next  week  and  is  going  down  there.  He 
says  that  he  wants  to  see  the  primroses  after 
that  horrid  Africa; — quite  a  poetical  touch, 
isn't  it, — for  Dick!  And  I  think  it  would  be 
really  a  little  too  brutal  of  me,  wouldn't  it,  if 
I  sailed  off  without  seeing  him  at  all — without 
pouring  out  his  tea  for  even  one  week." 

Milly  was  smiling,  really  with  her  own  soft 
gaiety ;  the  flush  had  gone.  Christina  was  con- 
vinced of  her  own  misinterpretation.  Duty 
had  called  Milly  away  from  pleasure,  and  she 


2i6         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

had  feared,  for  a  moment,  that  her  friend  would 
think  too  much  sacrifice  to  it. 

"Of  course,  dearest,  of  course  we  will  put 
it  off,"  she  said.  "And  of  course  we  will  go 
down  to  welcome  home  the  wanderer.  It  is 
sweet  of  you  to  have  thought  of  it." 

Milly  kissed  her.  "You  see  I  am  becoming 
quite  a  virtuous  woman,"  she  said.  "And  it 
is  a  pity  to  miss  the  primroses." 

The  packing  projects  turned  topsy-turvy, 
servants  to  be  redistributed,  Christina  saw  to 
all,  while  Milly,  with  still  her  new  cheerful- 
ness, flitted  in  the  spring  sunshine  from  shop 
to  shop,  decking  herself  in  appropriate  butter- 
fly garments.  They  were  to  get  to  Chawlton 
only  a  day  or  two  before  Dick's  arrival. 

The  gardens,  the  lawns,  the  woods,  were 
radiant,  and  Milly,  in  the  environment  of 
jocund  revival,  shared  the  radiance.  All  bar- 
riers seemed  gone,  were  it  not  that  Christina, 
full  of  strange  presages,  felt  the  very  radiance 
to  make  one. 

Milly  gathered  primroses  in  the  woods,  hat- 
less,  her  white  dress  and  fair  head  shining 
among  the  young  greys  and  greens.  She  came 
in  laden  with  flowers,  and  the  house  smiled 
with  their  pale  gold,  their  innocent  and  fragile 
gaiety.  "Isn't  the  country  delicious  ?"  she  said 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         217 

to  Christina.  "Much  nicer  than  dreary  Greece 
and  tiresome  ruins,  isn't  it?" 

"Much,"  said  Christina,  who  was  finding  the 
country,  the  spring,  the  sunshine,  the  very 
primroses,  full  of  a  haunting  melancholy. 

"I  have  a  thirst  for  simplicity  and  freshness 
and  life,"  Milly  went  on,  looking  at  the  sky, 
"and  how  one  feels  them  all  here.  Oh,  the 
cuckoo,  Christina,  isn't  it  a  sound  that  makes 
one  think  of  tears  and  happiness !" 

Of  tears  only,  not  of  happiness,  thought 
Christina;  of  regret — regret  for  something 
gone;  lost  for  ever.  The  cuckoo's  cry  pierced 
her  all  day  long. 

Simplicity  and  freshness  and  life;  Christina 
did  not  recall  the  words  definitely  when  she  saw 
Dick  Quentyn  spring  up  the  steps  to  greet  his 
wife  at  the  threshold  of  the  house;  but  some- 
thing unformulated  echoed  in  her  mind  with  a 
deepened  sense  of  presage. 

Milly  stretched  out  both  her  hands.  "Wel- 
come home,  Dick,"  she  said.  And  she  held  her 
cheek  to  be  kissed.  There  was  no  restraint 
or  shyness  in  her  eyes.  She  looked  at  the 
bronzed,  stalwart,  smiling  being  with  as  open 
and  happy  a  gaze  as  though  he  had  been  an 
oak-tree.  The  happiness  of  gaze  was  new ;  but 
then  it  was  only  part  of  Milly's  revival;  and 


218         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

then,  he  had  been  in  danger.  Christina  took 
comfort,  she  knew  not  for  what. 

"It  is  good  to  be  at  home  again,"  Dick  as- 
severated more  than  once  during  the  day ;  and, 
"I  say,  how  jolly  those  primroses  look,"  he  ex- 
claimed in  the  long  drawing-room. 

Milly,  her  arm  in  Christina's,  stood  beside 
him.  "I  gathered  them,  Dick,  all  of  them,  and 
arranged  them,  in  honour  of  your  return." 

"Oh,  come  now!"  Dick  Quentyn  ejaculated 
with  humorous  incredulity. 

Milly  smiled,  making  no  protest.  He,  she 
and  Christina  walked  about  the  grounds. 
Christina  had  felt  a  curious  shrinking  from 
joining  them,  a  shrinking,  in  any  normal  con- 
dition of  things  between  husband  and  wife,  so 
natural  that  it  was  only  with  a  shock  of  amaze- 
ment that  she  recognized  its  monstrousness  as 
applied  to  the  actual  one.  She  leave  Milly 
alone  with  her  husband !  What  a  revolution  in 
all  their  relations  would  such  a  withdrawal  have 
portended !  To  leave  them  would  have  been  to 
yield  to  morbid  imaginations,  to  make  them 
almost  real;  at  all  events  to  make  them  visible 
to  Milly;  and  Milly  certainly  did  not  see  them. 
Milly,  indeed,  seemed  to  see  nothing. 

She  still  held  Christina's  hand  drawn 
through  her  arm  while  they  walked  and  lis- 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         219 

tened  to  Dick's  laconic  and  much  prompted  re- 
cital of  his  African  adventures. 

"I  do  hope  you  won't  go  off  on  any  more 
terrible  expeditions  of  this  sort  for.  a  very  long 
time,  Dick,"  said  Milly.  "I  expected  every 
morning  to  read  in  the  newspaper  that  you'd 
been  eaten  by  savages." 

"Well,  I  wasn't  among  cannibals,  you  know," 
literal  Dick  objected,  "and  I  think  I'll  have  to 
have  another  brush  at  it.  Harvey  is  going  out 
in  a  month  or  so." 

"And  you  are  going  with  him?" 

"Well,  I  rather  think  I  shall,"  said  Dick. 
"He  is  a  splendid  fellow,  and  it  seems  my  sort 
of  thing." 

Before  dinner,  in  the  drawing-room,  he 
joined  Christina,  who  was  sitting  alone  look- 
ing out  at  the  evening.  "As  inseparable  as 
ever,  you  and  Milly,  aren't  you  ?"  he  said,  com- 
ing and  standing  over  her,  his  genial  eyes  upon 
her. 

"Just  as  inseparable,"  she  assented,  look- 
ing up  at  him.  She  smiled  with  an  emphasis 
that  was  faintly  defiant,  though  neither  she  nor 
Dick  recognized  defiance. 

"Milly  is  looking  a  little  fagged,  don't  you 
think,"  he  went  on.  "Has  she  been  doing  too 
much  this  winter?  You  are  frightfully  busy, 


220         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

aren't  you?  Milly  always  likes  going  at  a 
great  pace,  I  know." 

"I  should  not  have  thought  there  was  any- 
thing noticeable,"  said  Christina.  "She  was 
a  little  fagged,  perhaps;  but  the  country  has 
already  refreshed  her  wonderfully." 

"London  always  does  pull  one  down,  I  hate 
the  beastly  place,"  said  Dick.  And  he  went 
on :  "She  is  being  awfully  nice  to  me.  I  don't 
remember  her  ever  having  been  so  nice — since, 
I  mean,  we  decided  that  we  couldn't  hit  it  off. 
One  would  really  say  that  she  rather  liked  see- 
ing me !"  and  Dick  smiled,  as  if  the  joke  were 
very  comical. 

"You  have  been  in  such  danger.  Milly  can 
but  feel  relief."  Her  voice  was  full  of  an 
odd  repression,  discouragement,  but  Dick  was 
altogether  too  innocent  of  any  hope  to  be  aware 
of  discouragement  or  repression. 

"She  was  worried  about  me?  Really? 
That  was  awfully  good  of  her,"  he  said. 

Christina  was  remembering  that  Milly  had 
only  expressed  indifference  as  to  Dick's  danger. 

The  ensuing  evening  was,  to  Christina,  un- 
canny in  its  unapparent  strangeness.  She  and 
Dick  were  both  aware  of  novelty  and  Milly  was 
aware  of  none.  Her  cheerful  kindness  was  as 
natural  and  spontaneous  as  though  she  had 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         221 

been  a  girl  greeting  a  long  absent  brother. 
She  questioned  Dick,  and,  as  her  questions 
showed  interest — interest  and  a  knowledge 
horribly  surprising  to  Christina — Dick  talked 
with  unusual  fluency.  Christina  looked  at 
them  and  listened  to  them,  while  Milly,  lean- 
ing an  arm  on  the  table,  gazed  with  gravely 
shining  eyes  at  her  husband.  The  arm,  the 
eyes,  the  lines  of  the  throat,  were  very  lovely. 
Christina's  mind  fixed  upon  that  beauty,  and 
she  wished  that  Milly  would  not  lean  so  and 
look  so.  Milly,  again,  was  unaware.  It  was 
Christina  who  was  aware;  Christina  who  was 
quivering  with  latent,  unformulated  con- 
sciousness. After  dinner,  Milly  and  Dick  still 
talked;  she  still  listened.  She  knew  nothing 
about  Africa. 

For  three  or  four  days  this  was  the  situa- 
tion ;  a  reunited  brother  and  sister ;  a  friend,  for 
the  time  being,  necessarily  incidental.  Then, 
suddenly,  the  presages  grew  plainly  ominous. 
Was  it  her  own  realization  of  loneliness,  of 
not  being  needed,  that  so  overwhelmed  her? 
or  the  sense  of  some  utter  change  in  her  dar- 
ling— a  change  so  gradual  that  until  its  ac- 
complishment it  had  seemed  madness  to  recog- 
nize it  ?  The  moment  of  recognition  came  one 
day,  when,  on  going  into  the  library,  she 


222         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

found  Dick  and  Milly  sitting  side  by  side  at 
the  table,  their  heads  bent  over  a  map ;  and 
they  were  not  looking  at  the  map;  they  were 
looking  at  each  other;  still  like  brother  and 
sister,  but  such  fond  brother  and  sister,  while 
they  smiled  and  talked. 

Milly  turned  her  head  and  saw  Christina, 
and  Christina  knew  that  some  evident  adjust- 
ment went  over  her  own  face,  for  Milly 
jumped  up,  eagerly,  too  eagerly,  and  pulled  a 
chair  back  for  her  and  said;  "Sit  down,  dear- 
est. Dick  is  telling  me  adventures." 

What  was  it  that  drove  into  Christina's 
heart  like  a  knife?  Milly  smiled  at  her, 
eagerly  smiled ;  and  yet  she  was  miles  and  miles 
away;  had  she  been  in  the  jungles  of  Africa 
with  her  husband  she  could  not  have  been 
further;  and  she  was  greeting  her  as  though 
she  were  a  guest,  greeting  her  with  conven- 
tional warmth  and  courteous  sweetness. 
Christina  was  not  wanted ;  through  the  warmth 
and  sweetness  she  felt  that. 

Smiling,  she  said  she  had  come  for  a  book. 
Going  to  the  book-cases  she  sought  for  one  ac- 
curately— why  she  should  seek,  as  though  she 
had  come  in  with  the  intention  of  finding  it, 
a  volume  of  frothy  eighteenth  century  French 
memoirs  she  could  not  have  told — and,  smil- 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         223 

ing  again  upon  them  with  unconstrained  light- 
ness, she  left  them.  She  walked  steadily  to 
her  room,  locked  the  door,  and,  falling  upon 
her  knees  beside  the  bed,  broke  into  an  agony 
of  tears. 


The  end  had  come;  not  of  Christina's  love, 
not  of  her  need,  but  of  Milly's.  At  first  her 
mind  refused  to  face  the  full  realization — 
groped  among  the  omens  of  the  past,  would 
not  see  in  Dick,  even  now,  the  cause  of  all. 
She  could  trace  the  gradual,  the  dreadful  sev- 
erance; Milly's  slow  loss  of  interest  in  her 
and  in  their  life  together.  It  was  at  first  only 
for  the  fact  of  loss  that  she  wept,  that  loss, 
only,  she  could  look  at.  But  by  degrees,  as 
her  stifled  sobs  grew  quieter,  she  was  able  to 
think,  to  think  clearly,  fiercely,  with  desper- 
ate snatchings  at  hope,  while  she  crouched  by 
the  bed;  pushing  back  her  hair  from  her  fore- 
head ;  pressing  her  hot  temples  with  icy  hands. 

Why  should  Milly  lose  interest?  How 
could  she?  How  could  love  and  truest  sym- 
pathy, truest  understanding — how  could  they 
fail? 

"Love  begets  love.  Love  begets  love,"  she 
whispered  under  her  breath,  not  knowing  that 


224         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

she  spoke,  and,  in  this  hour  of  shipwreck, 
clinging  unconsciously  to  such  spars  and  frag- 
ments of  childish,  unreasoning  trust  as  her 
memory  tossed  her.  No  other  friendship 
threatened  hers;  she  was  first  as  friend,  ir- 
revocably, she  knew  it.  First  as  friend  did 
not  mean  to  Milly,  could  never  mean,  the  deep- 
dwelling  devotion  that  it  meant  to  her;  but 
such  affinity  and  attachment  as  Milly  felt 
could  not  die  without  some  other  cause  than 
mere  weariness.  And  the  truth  no  longer  to 
be  evaded  broke  over  her.  It  was  the  simplest 
while  the  most  absurd  of  truths.  Milly  was 
falling  in  love;  Milly  was  falling  in  love  with 
Dick;  and  she  was  frank  and  happy  because 
she  did  not  know  it;  and  he  did  not  know  it. 
Like  two  children  with  a  fresh  day  of  play 
and  sunshine  before  them,  they  were  engaged 
in  merry,  trivial  games,  picnics,  make-be- 
lieves, no  thought  of  sentiment  or  emotion  in 
them  to  account  for  the  new  sympathy;  but 
from  these  games  they  would  return  hand  in 
hand,  all  in  all  to  each  other,  bound  together 
in  the  lover's  illusion  and  needing  no  one  else. 
Maps!  Travels!  Africa!  Did  they  not  see 
these  things  as  silly  toys,  as  she  did?  What 
could  Milly  care  for  such  toys?  That  she 
should  play  with  them,  as  if  she  placed  tin 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         225 

soldiers  and  blew  a  tin  trumpet,  showed  the 
fatal  glamour  that  was  upon  her;  glamour 
only,  a  moonshine  mood  of  vague  restlessness 
and  craving.  How  dignify  by  the  sacred  name 
of  love  this  sentiment,  all  made  of  her  weak- 
ness, her  emotionalism,  her  egotism,  that 
swayed  her  now  so  ludicrously  towards  the 
man  whom,  open-eyed,  she  had  rejected  and 
scorned  for  years? 

Passionate  repudiation  of  the  debasement  for 
Milly  swept  through  the  stricken  friend  and 
mingled  with  the  throes  of  her  anguish  for 
herself.  For  how  was  she  to  live  without 
Milly?  How  could  she  live  as  Milly's  formal 
friend,  kept  outside  the  circle  of  intimate  af- 
fection, the  circle  where,  till  now,  she  had 
reigned  alone?  Ah!  she  understood  Milly's 
nature  too  well ;  she  saw  that  with  all  its  sweet- 
ness it  was  slight.  Love,  with  her,  would  ef- 
face all  friendships.  Like  a  delicate,  narrow 
little  vase,  her  heart  could  hold  but  one  deep 
feeling.  She  would  come,  simply,  not  to  care 
for  Christina  at  all.  Would  come?  Had  she 
not  come  already  ?  In  her  eyes,  her  smiles,  the 
empty  caressing  of  her  voice,  was  there  not  al- 
ready the  most  profound  indifference?  And 
all  the  forces  of  Christina's  nature  rose  in  re- 
bellion. She  felt  the  rebellion  like  the  on- 


226         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

slaught  of  angels  of  light  against  powers  of 
darkness;  it  was  the  ideal  doing  battle  with 
some  primal,  instinctive  force.  She  must 
fight  for  Milly  and  for  herself.  For  she,  too, 
had  her  claim.  She  measured  herself  beside 
Dick  Quentyn,  her  needs  beside  his.  His  life 
was  cheerful,  contented,  complete;  hers  with- 
out Milly  would  be  a  warped,  a  meaningless, 
a  broken  life.  Strangely,  her  thoughts,  in  all 
their  anguish,  turned  in  not  one  reproach  upon 
her  friend;  rather,  her  comprehension,  from 
maternal  heights  of  love,  sorrowed  over  her 
with  infinite  tenderness.  For,  so  she  told  her- 
self, she  could  have  resigned  her,  in  spite  of 
her  own  bereavement,  to  true  companionship, 
true  fulfilment.  But  Milly — her  Milly — made 
hers  by  all  these  years — in  love  with  Dick 
Quentyn!  It  was  a  calamity,  a  disease  which 
had  befallen  her  darling.  Asking  no  heights, 
this  love  would  lead  her  down  to  contented 
levels,  and  Milly's  life,  too,  in  all  true  senses, 
would  be  warped  and  meaningless  and  broken. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  library,  Dick  said  to  his 
wife:  "An't  I  interrupting  you?  Don't  you 
read  or  talk  or  do  something  with  Mrs.  Drent 
at  this  time  of  the  day?" 

And  at  the  question  alone,  contentedly  alone 
with  him  as  she  was,  dimly  enlightened,  too, 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          227 

by  Christina's  guarded  glance,  Milly  made  a 
swift,  surprised  survey  of  the  situation.  She 
did  not  want  to  talk  to  Christina;  she  wanted 
to  go  on  talking  to  Dick.  She  had  not  as  yet 
realized  that  Christina's  presence  had  become 
an  interruption,  a  burden;  Christina's  person- 
ality had  seemed  blurred,  merely,  and  far  away. 
She  was  now  aware  of  this,  aware,  for  the  first 
time,  of  something  to  hide  from  Christina,  and 
a  sense  of  awkwardness  and  almost  of  con- 
fusion came  upon  her. 

"Oh  no,  you  are  not  interrupting  us.  Chris- 
tina and  I  will  have  heaps  of  time  for  talking 
and  reading  when  you  are  gone,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing and  blushing  faintly. 

Dick,  even  more  unconscious  than  she  of 
its  meaning,  gazed  at  the  blush,  and  then  they 
went  on  with  their  talk  about  crocodiles. 

When  Christina  saw  Milly  again  that  even- 
ing, it  was  evident  to  her  that  Milly  had  at  last 
become  aware  of  something  changed,  and  that 
her  own  composure  urged  Milly  into  a  self- 
protecting  overdemonstrativeness.  She  was 
completely  composed.  She  stood  aside,  mild, 
unemphatic,  unaware,  seeming  not  to  see,  mak- 
ing no  effort  to  hold;  and  as  her  desperate 
dread  thus  instinctively  armed  her,  she  saw 
that  no  other  attitude  could  have  been  so  ef- 


228         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

ficacious.  When  she  stood  aside,  Milly  was 
forced  to  draw  her  in;  when  she  pretended  to 
see  nothing,  Milly  must  pretend — to  her  and 
to  Dick — that  there  was  nothing  to  see.  Milly 
was  afraid  of  her ;  that  became  apparent  to  her 
during  the  ensuing  days,  terrible,  lovely  days 
of  spring,  when,  as  if  with  drawn  breath  and 
cold,  measuring  eye,  she  crossed  an  abyss  on 
a  narrow  plank  laid  above  the  emptiness. 
Milly  was  afraid;  of  her  scorn  and  incredu- 
lity, perhaps;  perhaps  only  of  her  pain.  Milly 
was  cowardly  in  her  shrinking  from  giving 
pain;  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  go  to 
her  friend  and  say: — "I  have  fallen  in  love  with 
my  husband,  and  you  and  I  must  part."  In 
that  impossibility  for  Milly  lay  her  only  hope. 
If  Milly  and  Dick  could  be  held  apart,  and  by 
Milly's  own  cowardice  rather  than  by  any  word 
or  gesture  of  her  own,  the  wretched  interlude 
might  pass  and  Milly  come  to  look  back  upon 
it  with  shame  and  amazement  and  to  thank 
her  friend  for  the  strength  and  control  that  had 
made  escape  possible. 

And  the  first-fruits  of  her  strategy  were 
soon  apparent.  Milly  saw  less  and  less  of  Dick. 
Dick,  as  of  old,  made  no  attempt  to  seek  her 
out  and,  obviously,  it  was  now  impossible  for 
Milly,  with  Christina's  quiet  eyes  upon  her,  to 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          229 

seek  him.  Milly  took  up  again  the  idea  of 
Greece  and  said  that,  after  all,  they  must  go 
that  spring.  They  would  all,  she  gaily  de- 
clared, go  up  to  London  and  depart  to  their 
different  quarters  of  the  globe  at  the  same 
time,  Dick  to  Africa  and  she  and  Christina 
to  Greece.  This  was  said  in  Dick's  pres- 
ence and  he  cheerfully  acquiesced.  Christina 
wondered  if  Milly  had  not  hoped  for  some  pro- 
test or  suggestion  from  him.  In  Dick's  blind- 
ness lay,  she  began  to  see,  an  even  greater  hope 
than  in  Milly's  cowardice.  .Milly  could  not 
very  well  come  to  her  and  avow  her  love  for 
Dick  when  Dick,  it  was  evident,  did  not  dream 
of  avowing  his  for  her.  And  Milly  became 
aware  of  this  as  she  did.  Her  manner  towards 
Dick  changed.  She  rallied  him  with  a  touch 
of  irritability;  she  scored  off  him  as  she  had 
used  to  do,  by  means  of  Christina ;  she  put  for- 
ward Christina  and  her  relation  to  Christina 
constantly,  and  seemed  to  taunt  him,  as  of  old, 
with  his  own  inadequacy.  All  her  innocent 
gaiety  was  gone ;  she  hid  her  deep  disquiet  un- 
der an  air  of  feverish  brightness,  and  poor 
stupid  Dick,  accepting  Milly's  alteration  as  he 
had  always  accepted  things  from  her,  showed 
no  hurt  and  no  reproach;  he  merely  effaced 
himself,  cheerfully,  once  more. 


230         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

Christina  understood  it  all  and  the  breath- 
less subterfuges  in  which  Milly's  perturbation 
concealed  itself.  She  was  longing  that  Dick 
should  see  what  she  could  not  show,  and  that 
he  should  break  through  the  web  with  an 
avowal.  She  was  longing  that  Christina,  if 
Dick  remained  blind,  should  mercifully  give 
Dick  and  her  their  chance.  Christina  knew 
the  horrible  risk  she  ran  in  remaining  blandly 
unaware,  in  continuing  to  take  Milly  at  her 
word,  in  keeping  there,  between  her  and  Dick, 
where  Milly  herself  placed  her.  She  might 
part  them,  but  Milly  might  come  to  hate 
her. 

Milly's  plan  was  carried  out:  they  all  went 
up  to  town  together,  Milly  to  her  friend's 
house,  Dick  to  his  bachelor's  chambers.  And 
it  was  Christina  who  asked  Dick  to  come  and 
dine  with  them  the  night  before  he  left  for 
Africa.  She  maintained  every  appearance. 
The  very  air  that  night  was  electric  with  the 
restraints  ready  to  burst  into  reverberations 
which  would  surprise  no  one  but  Dick.  Chris- 
tina herself  was  aware  of  a  strange  little  dart 
of  impatience  with  him.  His  stupidity  helped 
her  as  nothing  else  could  have  helped;  yet, 
while  she  blessed  it,  she  could  feel  for  Milly, 
and  actually,  while  she  blessed,  resent  it.  It 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          231 

was  true  that  she  read  in  his  eyes  a  slight  shy- 
ness as  they  rested  upon  his  wife.  He  was  be- 
wildered, and  it  was  evident  he  was  not  happy. 
And  Milly  had  dropped  her  shield  of  flippancy. 
She  sat  silent,  absent,  absorbed,  looking  up  at 
her  husband  now  and  then,  with  curious  eyes, 
eyes  cold  and  deep  and  suffering.  Christina 
saw  it  all.  Should  she  leave  them  now,  it  was 
inevitable  that  the  revelation  would  come,  and 
it  would  come  from  Milly.  Mutely,  in  their 
respective  unconsciousness  and  consciousness, 
they  were  begging  her  to  go;  and  she  sat  on. 
Her  inflexible  determination  upheld  her  over 
the  terrible  falsity  of  her  position.  Milly,  now, 
must  know  that  she  knew ;  yet  she  sat  on,  smil- 
ing, talking,  until  the  hour  was  late. 

Then,  as  Dick  rose,  it  was  Milly  who  went 
towards  the  barrier  that  she  herself  had  raised 
and  showed  Dick  that  it  had  an  unlocked  gate. 
From  her  deep  knowledge  of  Milly's  nature, 
Christina  could  gauge,  with  a  dreadful  ac- 
curacy, what  the  strength  of  the  feeling  must 
be  that  could  nerve  her,  rising  and  saunter- 
ing to  the  door  beside  him,  to  say  in  a  strange, 
in  a  nonchalant  voice :  "How  about  a  walk  in 
the  park  to-morrow,  Dick?  You  don't  go  till 
the  evening,  do  you?" 

Dick  stared  for  a  moment.     He  was  pitiably, 


232          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

mercifully  stupid.  His  stare  might  really  have 
been  interpreted  as  one  of  mere  astonishment. 
Then : 

"Really?"  he  asked.  "Aren't  you  and  Mrs. 
Drent  too  busy?" 

"No,  indeed.  Our  arrangements  are  all 
made." 

"Shall  I  come  for  you  here?" 

"Do.     At  eleven." 

They  shook  hands,  and  Dick  took  Christina's 
hand.  She  felt,  always,  that  Dick  looked  upon 
her  as  a  friend.  His  eyes,  now,  revealed  to 
her  his  boyish  wonder  and  gladness.  She  and 
Milly  were  left  alone.  Milly,  still  with  the 
sauntering  step,  went  to  the  mantelpiece  and 
touched  her  hair,  looking  in  the  glass.  "Dear 
me,  how  late !"  she  said,  her  eyes  turning  to  the 
clock.  "How  dreadful  of  us  to  have  kept  poor 
Dick  up  so  late.  Shall  we  go  to  bed,  dear- 
est? I'm  dreadfully  sleepy." 

"You  didn't  mean  me  to  come  for  the  walk, 
too,  did  you?"  Christina  asked,  in  a  voice  as 
easy,  putting  up  her  hand  to  hide  a  yawn. 
"It's  our  usual  hour; — that's  why  I  ask.  But 
you  meant  him  to  understand  that  you  wanted 
it  to  be  a  tete-a-tete,  didn't  you  ?  It's  all  right. 
I  can  go  to  Mrs.  Pomfret's  for  my  fitting  at 
eleven." 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          233 

"But,  dearest,  of  course  you  are  coming," 
said  Milly  instantly. 

Their  eyes  were  on  each  other  now,  and 
their  faces  armed  and  masked.  Christina 
measured  the  depth  of  estrangement  in  all  that 
the  flexible,  disingenuous  acquiescence  hid  of 
disappointment,  bitterness,  even  hatred. 

"Oh  no,  no,  indeed;  I  think  you  ought  to 
have  your  good-bye  walk  alone,"  she  insisted. 
"He  will  expect  it  now.  I'm  sure  he  thought 
that  you  particularly  wanted  it  to  be  alone." 

"He  couldn't  have  thought  anything  so  un- 
likely," said  Milly.  "It  is  our  good-bye  walk 
with  you." 

So  Christina  went  with  them.  She  felt  her- 
self still  trembling  in  every  nerve  from  the  ap- 
palling risk  she  had  run,  and  ran;  for  which 
was  the  greater  risk,  that  Milly  should  realize 
her  guile  and  hate  her,  or  that  Milly  and  Dick 
should  come  to  an  understanding?  She  could 
not  tell;  nor  where  she  stood;  yet  triumph 
trembled  in  her  fear.  She  had  succeeded. 
They  had  not  spoken  together.  In  the  park  she 
and  Milly  bade  Dick  good-bye.  Dick's  train 
was  to  go  in  the  early  evening.  Milly,  when 
they  reached  home— and  she  had  talked  lightly 
if  not  gaily  in  the  hansom-»-said  that  she  had 
rather  a  headache.  She  would  have  her  lunch- 


234          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

eon  in  her  room  and  sleep  through  the  after- 
noon and  be  fit  and  fresh  for  the  play  that 
night.  Christina  knew  in  an  instant  that  a  last 
desperate  hope  cowered  beneath  the  affected 
languor  and  lightness;  and  it  watched  her, 
feverishly,  like  the  eyes  of  a  tracked  animal 
creeping  in  an  underbrush  past  enemies'  guns. 
When  she  replied,  kissing  her  friend  tenderly, 
that  a  good  rest  was  the  best  of  cures  for  a 
headache  and  that  she  herself  would  do  some 
shopping  and  go  to  the  tea  for  which  they  were 
engaged,  these  large,  sick  eyes  of  Milly's  hope 
and  fear  widened  and  shone  with  a  recovered 
security.  She  wanted  to  be  left  alone  that 
afternoon.  She  would  not  go  to  Dick;  Chris- 
tina knew  her  too  accurately  to  believe  that 
possible,  and  Dick  had  been  too  stupid  to  make 
it  conceivable;  but  what  Milly  hoped  for  was  a 
sudden  illumination  of  Dick's  stupidity;  some 
tug  of  unendurable  pain  or  surmise  that  would 
bring  him  back  on  the  chance  of  seeing  her 
again.  Milly's  logic  was  instinctive,  but  Chris- 
tina believed  that  it  was  sound.  Dick,  she,  too, 
felt  sure  of  it,  would  come.  She  lunched  and 
then  she  sat  at  her  writing-table  and  wrote 
some  notes,  looking  out  at  the  street,  and  then, 
when  an  hour  approached  in  which  a  caller 
might  appear,  she  went  out. 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          235 

It  was  one  of  the  suddenly  hot  days  in  May 
that  London  sometimes  offers.  It  was  so  hot 
that  Christina's  head,  as  she  walked  slowly  up 
Sloane  Street,  swam  and  turned,  and  the  lines 
of  cabs  and  omnibuses  and  carriages  in  the 
roadway,  upon  which  she  fixed  her  eyes,  seemed 
to  pulse  and  float  as  they  went  by.  Three 
o'clock  had  struck.  Dick,  if  he  came,  must 
come  before  five,  and  she  must  walk  up  and 
down  Sloane  Street  for  perhaps  nearly  two 
hours.  If  she  lay  in  wait  in  the  house,  Milly, 
who  no  doubt  was  already  up  and  dressed  and 
waiting,  would  discover  her.  Milly,  too,  might 
be  watching  from  the  drawing-room  windows. 
Her  peril  was  desperate,  and  her  safest  course 
was  to  walk  on  the  side  of  the  street  near  the 
house  where  Milly  could  not  see  her.  This  she 
did,  turning  regularly  in  her  little  beat,  indif- 
ferent to  the  odd  spectacle  she  must  present, 
and  scanning  the  passers-by.  She  had  not 
long  to  wait.  Half-an-hour  had  not  elapsed, 
when,  in  an  approaching  hansom,  she  saw  the 
broad  shoulders  and  perplexed  yet  resolute  fea- 
tures of  Dick  Quentyn.  He,  too,  had  come  to 
final  decisions  on  this  fateful  day. 

Christina  walked  towards  the  hansom  smil- 
ing. With  her  opened  parasol  and  delicate 
dress  of  white  and  black  she  had  the  most  un- 


236         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

alarming  and  casual  air.  She  seemed  to  have 
just  stepped  from  her  own  doorway.  She  had 
held  up  her  hand  in  signal,  and  Dick,  arresting 
his  cabman,  sprang  out.  Christina  greeted 
him  gaily. 

"Well,  this  is  very  nice.  Can  you  really  stop 
and  speak  to  me?  You're  not  running  a  risk 
of  losing  your  train?" 

Dick  hardly  smiled  in  answer.  His  face 
showed  his  uncertainty,  his  anxiety,  his  trouble. 

"My  train?  Oh  no; — I've  over  an  hour  yet. 
Heaps  of  time. — In  fact — I  was  on  my  way  to 
your  house.  I  thought  I'd  have  a  last  glimpse 
of  you  and  Milly.  Are  you  just  going  out?" 

"Just  going  out.  And  as  to  Milly, — it's  too 
bad,"  said  Christina,  "but  she  is  getting  a  little 
sleep  this  afternoon  and  particularly  asked  that 
she  shouldn't  be  disturbed.  We  are  going  to 
the  play  to-night.  You'll  walk  with  me  for  a 
little  way,  though,  won't  you?" 

There  was  nothing  ambiguous  in  her  words 
or  manner.  They  were  certainly  in  keeping 
with  the  situation,  and  poor  Dick  Quentyn,  al- 
though he  looked  almost  haggard,  turned  obe- 
diently and  walked  beside  her.  He  walked 
silently  for  a  little  way,  while  Christina  talked, 
then,  as  they  came  out  into  Knightsbridge,  he 
said,  suddenly; — "Mrs.  Drent, — may  I  ask  you 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          237 

about  something? — Do  you  mind?  Shall  we 
go  into  the  park  for  a  little  while?" 

"Of  course ;  of  course,"  said  Christina,  kindly 
and  mildly. 

They  went  into  the  park  and  sat  down  on 
two  chairs  that  faced  the  stream  of  carriages 
and  had  rhododendrons  behind  them.  When 
they  sat  down,  Christina's  head  swam  so  giddily 
that  she  feared  she  might  be  going  to  faint. 
She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  moment,  mastering 
her  weakness  with  a  desperate  effort.  Dick 
did  not  notice  her  pallor.  "You  see,"  he  said, 
leaning  forward  and  boring  small  holes  in  the 
gravel  with  the  point  of  his  stick — "You  see, 
— I  think  I  must  tell  you — ask  you  for  your 
advice — because  you  know  Milly  so  much  better 
than  any  one  else  in  the  world.  You  can  tell 
me  if  I'm  mistaken — or  advise  me  what  to  do, 
you  know.  It's  just  this:  I  thought,  when  I 
first  came  home,  that  Milly  had  begun  to  care 
for  me  again — or,  at  all  events,  that  she'd  got 
over  disliking  me." 

"Care  for  you?  Dislike  you?"  Christina 
murmured  vaguely.  "Oh — I  don't  think  it  was 
ever  that — of  late  years — since  you'd  so  tact- 
fully and  charmingly  understood  and  made 
everything  so  easy  for  her." 

"No.     Yes;  it  seemed  she'd  particularly  got 


238         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

over  it,"  Dick,  rather  puzzled,  assented.  "And 
I  mean,  by  caring-,  that  she  seemed  so  happy 
when  I  was  there — at  first,  happier  than  I'd 
ever  known  her." 

"She  can  dare  to  be  happy  with  you  now, 
you  see;  just  because  you  have  made  her  so 
secure." 

"So  secure?" 

"Yes,"  Christina  met  his  eyes.  "So  sure 
that  you'll  never  ask  anything  of  her,  make 
anything  difficult  for  her  again." 

Dick  Quentyn  grew  red.  "I  never  did  do 
that,  as  far  as  I  remember,  after  I  understood." 

"That  is  what  Milly  so  deeply  appreciates," 
Christina  returned. 

There  was  a  little  silence  after  this  and 
Christina,  in  it,  controlled  her  breaths  from 
trembling.  Then  Dick,  groping  painfully 
among  his  impressions,  put  forward  another. 
"She  did  mind,  very  much,  my  being  in  danger 
last  winter;  you  told  me  that.  She  was  wor- 
ried, really  worried  about  me  ?" 

Like  a  hurried,  jangling  bell  somewhere  in 
the  background  of  her  mind  Christina,  as  she, 
too,  gathered  together  her  impressions  and 
memories,  seemed  to  hear  a  reiterated  "No 
lies;  above  all,  no  lies."  But  he  had  put  the 
weapon  into  her  hand,  and  though  she  felt  as 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         239 

if  she  held  it  lifted  above  some  innocent  life, 
it  fell  relentlessly. 

"Did  I  say  that  Milly  was  worried  about 
you?  It  was  hardly  that,  I  think;  though, 
of  course,  she  was  glad  to  see  you  out  of 
danger.  Of  course  she  was  glad;  how  could 
anyone  so  gentle-hearted  as  Milly  not  be?  But 
if  you  ask  me  what  she  did  feel,  I  must  tell 
you  the  truth.  You  want  the  truth,  don't  you  ? 
It  is  much  better — for  you  and  for  Milly,  isn't 
it,  that  there  should  be  no  misunderstandings  ?" 
— Dick  nodded — his  eyes  fixed  on  her.  "What 
Milly  said,  in  the  winter,  when  we  had  news 
of  your  danger, — was  that  it  was  rather  dread- 
ful to  realize  that  if  you  were  killed  it  would 
hardly  affect  her  more  than  the  death  of  any 
of  the  men  who  had  come  to  tea  with  us  the 
day  before." 

The  knife  had  fallen  and  her  victim,  after  a 
moment,  turned  dazed  eyes  away  from  her. 
"Milly  said  that?  About  me?" 

"I  was  shocked,"  Christina  murmured.  She 
heard,  as  if  from  a  far  distance,  the  strange, 
hushed  quality  of  her  voice.  Her  own  blood 
seemed  to  have  been  arrested. 

"She  wouldn't  have  minded  more  than 
that?" 

"She  said,  when  I  reproached  her,  that  I 


240          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

could  only  expect  her  to  be  solemn,  not  sorry, 
over  the  death  of  a  man  for  whom  she  had  no 
affection,  a  man  she  had  almost  hated.  Mr. 
Quentyn,  I  am  so  grieved  for  you.  Of  course, 
she  doesn't  hate  you  now ;  but  I  am  afraid  you 
have  allowed  yourself  false  hopes  about  Milly." 

Dick,  now,  had  risen  to  his  feet  and,  facing 
her  as  she  sat,  he  gazed  over  her  head  at  the 
rhododendrons.  "I  wonder  why  she  wanted 
me  to  come  for  a  walk  this  morning.  Yes,  I 
did  have  false  hopes.  I  thought  that  meant 
something.  I've  thought  that  all  sorts  of  little 
things  might  mean  something." 

"Milly  is  so  sweet  and  kind  when  she  feels 
no  pressure,  no  alarm.  I  thought,  for  a  mo- 
ment last  night,  that  she  meant  you  to  have  the 
walk  alone.  But  as  soon  as  you  were  gone  she 
insisted  on  my  coming  with  you.  I've  tried  to 
help  you,  Mr.  Quentyn.  I've  given  you  every 
chance.  But  there  isn't  any  chance."  It  was 
well  to  do  it  thoroughly. 

There  was  bewilderment  and  humiliation — 
at  last  humiliation — on  Dick's  face;  but  of  in- 
credulity not  a  trace.  "I  know  how  kind 
you've  been,"  he  said.  "I've  felt  it." 

Christina,  now,  had  also  risen.  A  dart  of 
keenest  pity,  even  admiration,  went  through 
her,  horridly  painful.  "I  am  so  dreadfully 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          241 

sorry,"  she  murmured.  "I  had  to  tell  you — 
since  you  asked  me ; — I  didn't  want  you  to  hurt 
Milly — and  yourself — uselessly." 

"I  know.  I  perfectly  understand,"  said 
Dick. 

They  walked  in  silence  to  Albert  Gate,  and 
there,  as  they  paused  in  farewell,  Christina 
suddenly,  seizing  his  arm  and  speaking  in  a 
hurried  whisper,  said :  "You  have  been  splen- 
did. I  can't  tell  you  how  I  feel  it.  If  I  can 

ever — at  any  time — do  anything "  It  was 

the  truth,  yet  the  falseness  of  such  speech,  from 
her  to  him,  appalled  her  while  she  spoke.  Her 
voice  trailed  off.  "Forgive  me.  Good-bye — " 
she  said. 

They  grasped  each  other's  hands  and  Dick, 
as  she  broke  away,  saw  that  t;he  tears  were 
running  down  her  face. 


CHAPTER  III 

CHRISTINA 

HE  was  gone.  She  had  triumphed.  And 
only  pain  and  horror,  as  if  for  the  inno- 
cent life  she  had  taken,  were  about  her.  No 
joy,  no  triumph,  in  having  snatched  Milly  from 
degradation. 

At  the  thought  of  Milly  the  fear  that  drove 
upon  her  was  so  intense  that  it  induced  a  cu- 
rious lightness  of  head.  She  was  uplifted  and 
upheld  above  her  own  fear.  The  unnatural 
buoyancy  became  almost  a  lightness  of  heart. 
All  was  over.  If  she  were  a  criminal  she  must 
profit  by  her  crime  and  shelter  herself  from 
suspicion.  They  would  be  happy — of  course 
they  would  be  happy  again — she  and  Milly. 
"Love  begets  love.  Love  begets  love."  She 
heard  herself  muttering  the  words  almost  gaily, 
like  an  incantation,  as  she  walked  down  Sloane 
Street. 

When  she  crossed  the  street  and  looked  up 

at  the  house  she  saw  that  Milly  was  standing  at 

242 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         243 

the  drawing-room  window  looking  down  at  her. 
Something  in  Milly's  attitude  there,  in  her 
beautiful  dress  and  in  her  unsmiling  gaze,  sug- 
gested to  Christina  the  thought  of  a  captive 
princess  watching  the  approach  of  some  evil 
enchantress.  Milly — her  prisoner — her  vic- 
tim! Her  darling  Milly! — She  beat  away  the 
black  vision. 

She  went  slowly  upstairs  and  came  slowly 
into  the  drawing-room.  Milly  had  turned 
from  the  window  and,  with  the  same  hard,  un- 
smiling gaze,  stood  and  watched  her  enter. 
Christina  sank  into  a  chair. 

"Well,"  said  Milly  after  a  moment,  and  in 
a  voice  that  Christina  had  never  heard  from 
her,  "he  did  not  come,  you  see.  I  am  up  and 
dressed — yes — you  know  that  I  intended  to  get 
up  and  dress  as  soon  as  you  were  gone,  I  am 
sure — and  I  have  been  waiting  here  for  an  hour 
— and  he  has  not  come.  He  has  not  cared 
enough  to  come.  So  there  are  no  roundabout 
questions  for  you  to  ask  or  evasive  answers  for 
you  to  hear.  You  have  the  truth  before  you." 

Christina  was  not  at  all  surprised,  though 
there  was  something  so  horrible  in  this  un- 
shrinking frankness  from  one  so  reticent,  so 
delicate  as  Milly.  She  knew,  as  she  heard  her 
speak,  that  it  was  what  she  had  expected.  The 


244          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

subterfuges  of  the  past  weeks  lay  in  ruin  about 
them.  She  sat,  her  eyes  fallen,  drawing  off 
her  gloves,  and  she  said  gently,  "I  am  sorry, 
Milly,  if  you  hoped  that  he  would  come." 

"No,"  said  Milly,  not  moving  from  her  place. 
"You  are  not  sorry,  Christina.  You  are  glad. 
You  are  sorry  that  I  care  and  you  are  glad  that 
he  does  not  care,  because  you  think  that  it  will 
keep  us  together.  But  that  is  your  mistake. 
It  is  all  impossible  now,  and  you  have  made  it 
so.  I  am  going  away.  I  am  going  back  to  the 
country.  I  want  to  be  alone." 

Again  Christina  was  not  surprised;  this  was 
the  fear  which  she  had  glanced  down  at  from 
her  haze  of  uncanny  lightness. 

"Have  I  made  it  so  impossible?  What  have 
I  done,  Milly?"  she  asked,  after  a  moment. 

Milly  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair.  She 
had  passed  beyond  fear.  There  was  no  mist 
or  illusion  in  her  calmness.  "You  didn't  give 
us  a  chance,"  she  said.  "Not  a  chance.  You 
saw  how  I  cared.  You  saw  how  I  had  come  to 
need  him.  You  saw  how  stupid  he  was  and  un- 
less he  were  helped  he  would  see  nothing.  I 
was  afraid  to  hurt  you.  Of  course  I  was.  Of 
course  I  was  sorry  for  you,  horribly  sorry. 
And  you  traded  on  that.  You  saw  that  unless 
you  stood  aside  I  could  do  nothing." 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          245 

"I  thought  that  I  did  stand  aside,  Milly," 
said  Christina  after  another  moment. 

"Never  really,"  said  Milly. 

"I  don't  quite  see  what  you  mean  by  really, 
Milly,"  said  Christina.  "I  left  you  with  him 
whenever  you  gave  me  the  opportunity  for  do- 
ing so.  Perhaps  you  mean  that  I  ought  to 
have  committed  suicide." 

"No;  I  don't  mean  that,"  Milly  returned  sul- 
lenly, with  an  unaltered  hostility.  "There  are 
different  ways  of  standing  aside.  You  could 
have  made  it  possible  for  me  to  tell  you,  openly, 
what  I  felt;  you  could  have  made  me  feel  that 
you  would  be  glad  to  have  me  happy  with  him. 
You  need  not  have  made  me  feel  in  everything 
you  did  and  said — and  didn't  do  or  say — that  if 
I  went  back  to  Dick  I  should  be  going  to  him 
over  your  dead  body." 

"I  think  you  mean,  Milly,"  Christina  an- 
swered in  her  dull  and  gentle  voice,  "that  I 
ought  not  to  have  loved  you.  That  is  my 
crime,  is  it  not?" 

"Yes ;  perhaps  that  is  your  crime,  if  you  want 
to  put  it  so,"  said  Milly.  "I  don't  blame  you, 
you  know.  You  could  not  help  it.  But  your 
love  has  always  been  a  prison.  As  long  as  I 
was  contented  in  the  prison  you  made  it  a  very 
charming  place  to  live  in.  But  when  I  wanted 


246         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

to  be  free,  to  have  other,  deeper,  realler  loves, 
I  knew  that  I  had  a  gaoler  to  get  past,  a  gaoler 
who  would  not  kill  me,  but  whom  I  would  have 
to  kill.  So  that  I  sat  in  my  cell  and  did  not 
dare  turn  the  key  in  the  lock  for  fear  of  what 
would  happen  to  you.  And  it  isn't  true  to  say 
that  you  left  the  door  open.  You  pretended  to, 
of  course.  But  when  I  did  make  my  one  effort, 
when  I  did  try  to  creep  out  under  your  eyes, 
you  turned  the  key  on  me  quickly  enough. 
The  walk  this  morning.  You  knew  that  I 
hoped  for  it  alone.  You  knew  that  it  was  our 
last  chance." 

While  Milly  spoke  these  words  to  her,  Chris- 
tina sat  with  her  head  bent  down  and  her  hands 
pressed  tightly  together  in  her  lap,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  weeping  inwardly, 
tears  of  blood.  It  was  shame,  unutterable 
shame,  that  she  felt,  mixed  with  the  anguish, 
and  weighing  her  down  to  the  earth.  Shame 
for  what  she  had  done  in  sacrifice  to  the  love 
she  heard  thus  abused ;  shame  for  the  truth, 
the  cruel  half-truth,  in  Milly's  words;  and 
shame  for  Milly  that  she  could  find  it  in  her  to 
speak  such  words  to  her.  Deeper?  Realler? 
Could  any  love,  though  tricked  out  in  romantic 
conventions,  be  deeper  or  realler  than  the  love 
she  had  for  Milly?  In  the  innermost  cham- 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          247 

bers  of  her  heart  she  knew  that,  in  spite  of  the 
cruel  half-truth,  what  Milly  said  was  not  the 
whole.  She  would — oh  yes,  she  would  have 
given  her  up — with  gladness — as  a  mother 
gives  up  her  child — to  a  love  that  she  could 
have  recognized  as  ennobling.  It  had  not 
been  her  own  selfish  clinging,  only,  that  had 
nerved  her.  It  had  been  the  thought  of  Milly's 
truest  good.  And  if  she  were  to  say  this  to 
Milly,  she  knew  now  what  withering  laughter 
she  would  hear. 

The  thought  of  this  laughter  from  Milly's 
lips,  of  Milly's  cruelty  to  her,  hunted  her  down 
the  first  turning  of  concealment  open  to  her. 
"I  didn't  want  to  come  with  you,"  she  said. 
"You  made  me  come.  But  I  was  glad — for 
your  sake — because  it  shielded  you.  You  had 
made  it  so  obvious  to  him  that  you  wanted  it 
to  be  alone.  I  thought  that  you  had  made  it 
too  obvious." 

Milly  drew  a  long  breath  and  a  vivid  red 
mounted  to  her  cheeks.  For  some  moments 
she  sat  still,  saying  nothing.  Then,  not  meet- 
ing her  friend's  eyes,  for  they  were  now  fixed 
on  her,  she  rose. 

"Yes.  I  have  been  unfair,"  said  Milly.  "I 
have  been  ungrateful  and  unkind,  and  unfair. 
I  know  that  you  have  thought  only  of  me ;  and 


248          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

you  saw  what  I've  only  realised  in  this  last 
hour.  It  has  hurt  so  terribly  to  realise  it — to 
realise  that  I've  had  my  chance  of  happiness 
and  thrown  it  away  and  that  now  it's  too  late 
to  get  it  back  again — it's  hurt  so  terribly  that 
it  has  made  me  cruel.  You  have  been  right  all 
along  and  I  have  been  a  fool.  But  there  it  is. 
I  love  him  and  I'm  broken-hearted,  and  now  all 
that  I  can  do  is  to  go  away  and  hide  myself." 

She  was  going,  actually  going.  Their  life 
together  was  over,  shattered.  The  intoler- 
able realisation  crashed  down  upon  Christina's 
abasement.  She  stood  up,  staring  at  her 
friend.  "You  are  going  to  leave  me,  Milly?" 
she  asked. 

Milly  averted  her  eyes.  "Yes,  Christina.  I 
want  to  be  alone." 

"But  you  will  come  back?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Milly.  Still  she 
averted  her  eyes;  but,  in  the  rigid  silence  that 
followed,  compunction  evidently  wrought  upon 
her.  She  glanced  round  at  her  suffering 
friend  and  Christina's  eyes  met  hers.  They 
hurt  her.  They  were  glazed,  like  the  eyes  of  a 
deer,  waiting  for  the  hunter's  final  blow. 

"Christina,"  she  said,  and  her  voice  showed 
her  pity;  "won't  you  try  to  learn  to  live  with- 
out me?  Really — really — it  can't  come  back 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          249 

again,  as  it  was.  You  must  see  that.  Not 
after  all  that  we  have  said,  all  that  has  hap- 
pened. Learn  to  live  without  me.  Get  some 
nice  woman  and  go  to  Greece  and  try  to  forget 
me.  I  can  only  mean  suffering  for  you  now, 
and  I'm  not  nearly  good  enough  for  you." 

At  this  Christina  broke  into  dreadful  sobs. 
She  did  not  move  towards  her  friend,  but  she 
stretched  her  clasped  hands  out  towards  her 
and  said,  while  her  voice,  half-strangled,  came 
in  gasps:  "Milly — Milly — Have  you  forgot- 
ten everything? — All  the  years  when  we  were 
so  happy  together? — When  he  was  nothing  to 
you? — For  all  these  years,  Milly — nothing — 
nothing. — How  can  you  care — suddenly — like 
this — when  you  have  almost  hated  him  for  so 
long? — You  know  what  you  said,  in  the  winter, 
Milly — that  you  would  not  care  if  he  were  to 
die." 

Milly' s  eyes  had  hardened.  She  moved  to- 
wards the  door. 

"Milly!"  Christina's  cry  arrested  her. 
She  had  to  stop  and  listen,  though  her  hand 
was  on  the  door.  "Wait!  Forgive  me! — I 
don't  know  what  I  am  saying! — And  it  was 
true!  It  was!  You  did  not  care! — Oh  don't 
be  cruel  to  me.  I  shall  die  if  you  leave  me. 
What  have  I  done  that  you  should  change  so  ?" 


250         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

"You  have  done  nothing,  Christina,"  said 
Milly  in  a  voice  of  schooled  forbearance.  "It 
is  I  who  have  changed,  and  been  cruel,  first  to 
Dick  and  then  to  you.  I  am  a  shallow,  feeble 
creature,  but  the  shallowness  was  in  thinking 
that  I  couldn't  love  my  husband — not  in  lov- 
ing him  now.  I  don't  want  the  things  you  and 
I  had  together.  I  only  want  the  stupid,  sim- 
ple things  that  he  could  have  given  me.  I 
want  someone  to  be  in  love  with  me.  That  is 
it,  I  think.  I  am  the  most  usual,  common  sort 
of  woman,  who  must  have  someone  in  love  with 
her  and  be  in  love.  And  I  am  in  love  with 
Dick.  And  I  am  too  unhappy  to  think  of  any- 
one but  myself." 

Christina  stood  with  her  face  covered.  Con- 
vulsive sobs  shook  her. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Milly. 

She  did  not  reply.  She  moved  her  head  a 
little,  in  negation?  acquiescence?  appeal? — 
Milly  did  not  know.  And  since  Christina  still 
said  nothing,  she  turned  the  handle  softly  and 
left  her. 


Milly  went  down  to  Chawlton.  In  the  coun- 
try, alone,  she  could  sit  and  look  at  her  life  and 
at  the  wreckage  she  had  made  in  it  without  feel- 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          251 

ing  that  another's  eyes  were  watching  her.  It 
pained  her,  when  she  could  turn  her  mind  from 
the  humiliation  of  her  own  misery,  to  see  how 
completely  all  love  for  poor  Christina  had  died 
from  her,  to  see  how  the  perhaps  crude  and  ele- 
mental love  had  killed  the  delicate,  derivative 
affection.  It  was  even  sadder  to  realise  that 
under  the  superficial  pain  lay  a  deep  indiffer- 
ence. She  was  very  sorry  for  Christina.  She 
had  accepted  Christina's  life  and  used  it,  and 
now,  through  the  strange  compulsion  of  fate, 
she  must  cut  herself  away  from  it,  even  if  that 
were  to  leave  it  broken  and  bleeding.  For  if 
she  were  to  remain  sorry  for  Christina,  to  look 
back  at  her  with  pity  and  compunction,  she 
must  not  see  her.  Words,  glances,  silences  of 
Christina's  rankled  in  her,  and  when  she 
thought  of  them  she  could  not  forgive  her. 
Christina  had  seen  too  much,  understood  too 
much.  She  was  a  blight  upon  her  love,  a  men- 
ace to  her  tragic  memory  of  it.  Under  every- 
thing, deeper  than  anything  else  in  her  feeling 
about  Christina,  was  a  dim  repulsion  and  dis- 
like. 

That  Christina  had  submitted  showed  in  her 
letters,  for  Milly,  before  many  days  had  passed, 
wrote  kindly  and  mildly,  in  the  tone  which,  for 
the  future,  she  intended  to  use  towards  Chris- 


252         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

tina.  Milly  surprised  herself  with  her  own 
calm  ruthlessness.  She  found  that  the  gentle 
and  the  cowardly  can,  when  roused,  be  more 
cruel  than  the  harsh  and  fearless.  Her  letters 
to  Christina  were  serene  and  impersonal. 
They  recognised  a  bond,  but  they  defined  its 
limits.  They  might  have  been  letters  written 
to  a  former  governess,  with  whom  her  relation 
had  been  kindly  but  not  fond.  They  never 
mentioned  her  husband's  name,  nor  alluded, 
even  indirectly,  to  her  mistimed  love ;  and  to  ask 
Christina's  forgiveness  again  for  her  unjust 
arraignment  of  her  would  have  been  to  allude 
indirectly  to  it. 

And  Christina's  letters  made  no  appeal. 
They  were  infrequent,  hardly  affectionate; 
amazingly  tactful  letters.  Milly  shrank  in 
recognising  how  tactful.  It  showed  Chris- 
tina's power  that  she  should  be  so  tactful, 
should  so  master  herself  to  a  responsive  calm. 
Milly  had  come  to  dread  Christina's  tact,  her 
patience  and  her  reticence,  more  than  all  the 
vehemence  and  passionate  upbraidings  of  for- 
mer years.  Beneath  the  careful  words  she 
knew  that  a  profound,  undying  hope  lay  hid- 
den; pain,  too,  profound  and  undying.  The 
thought  of  such  hope,  such  pain,  made  Milly 
feel  at  once  the  pity  and  the  repulsion. 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         253 

In  none  of  Christina's  letters  was  there  any 
mention  of  her  health.  Milly  knew  how 
fragile  was  her  hold  on  life  and  how  much  had 
happened  of  late  to  tax  it;  but  it  was  with  a 
shock  of  something  unrealisable,  unbeliev- 
able, that  she  read  one  autumn  morning,  in  a 
blurred  and  shaking  hand:  "I  am  very  ill — 
dying,  they  say.  Come  to  me  at  once.  I  must 
tell  you  something." 

Christina  dying.  She  had  said  that  it  would 
kill  her.  And  what  had  she  not  said  to  Chris- 
tina that  might  not  well  have  killed  her? 
Milly  was  stricken  with  dreadful  remorse  and 
horror. 

She  hastened  to  London. 

The  maid  at  the  door  of  the  little  house  in 
Sloane  Street  told  her  that  Mrs.  Drent  was 
rapidly  sinking.  Milly  read  reproach  in  her 
simple  eyes.  "I  did  not  know!  Why  was  I 
not  told? — Why  was  I  not  told?" — she  re- 
peated to  the  nurse  who  came  to  meet  her. 
Mrs.  Drent,  the  nurse  said,  would  not  have  her 
sent  for,  but  during  these  last  few  days  she 
had  become  slightly  delirious  and  had  spoken 
of  something  she  wished  to  tell,  had,  at  last,  in- 
sisted on  writing  herself.  She  could  hardly 
live  a  day  longer.  Heart-failure  had  made  her 
illness  fatal. 


254         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

In  the  sick  room,  Milly  paused  at  the  door. 
Was  that  Christina?  That  strange  face  with 
such  phantom  eyes?  Christina's  eyes  did  not 
look  at  her  with  reproach  or  with  sorrow,  but, 
it  seemed,  with  terror,  a  wild,  infectious  ter- 
ror; Milly  felt  it  seize  her  as  she  stood,  spell- 
bound, by  the  door.  Then  a  rush  of  immense 
pity  and  comprehension  shook  her  through  and 
through.  Christina  was  dying,  delirious,  and 
what  must  she  be  feeling  in  her  haunted  aban- 
donment and  desolation?  She  ran  to  the  bed 
weeping.  She  knelt  beside  it.  Her  tears 
rained  upon  Christina's  hands,  as  she  took  her 
in  her  arms  and  kissed  her.  "Christina! — 
dearest  Christina ! — Forgive  me !  Forgive  me ! 
— I  did  not  know! — Why  did  you  not  let  me 
come  and  nurse  you? — I  have  always  nursed 
you!  Why  did  you  not  tell  me? — Oh,  Chris- 
tina!" 

Holding  her,  kissing  her,  she  could  not  see 
clearly  the  .illumination  that,  at  her  words,  il- 
luminated the  dying  woman's  face.  Life 
seemed  suddenly  to  leap  to  her  eyes  and  lips. 
The  terror  vanished  like  a  ghost  in  the  upris- 
ing of  morning  sunlight.  With  a  rapture  of 
hope  and  yearning  which  resumed  all  her  ebb- 
ing power,  physical  and  spiritual,  she  stretched 
out  her  arms  and  clasped  them  about  Milly's 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          255 

neck.  "Do  you  love  me  again?"  she  asked. 
Her  voice  was  like  a  child's  in  its  ecstasy. 

"My  darling  Christina! — Love  you? — Who 
is  there  in  all  the  world  but  you !"  Milly  cried. 
No  affirmation  could  be  too  strong,  she  felt,  no 
atonement  too  great. 

"Better  than  you  love  him  ?" 

Milly  did  not  even  hesitate.  Lies  were  like 
obstacles  hardly  seen  as,  in  the  onrush  of  her 
remorse  and  pity,  she  leaped  them. — "Yes, — 
Yes.  You  are  everything,"  she  reiterated. 
"I  love  you  best.  It  has  passed — that  feeling." 

"It  has  passed !  I  knew  that  it  would  pass !" 
Christina  seemed  to  gasp  and  smile  at  once. 
"You  know,  now,  that  it  was  not  right; — that 
it  was  not  you ; — that  it  was  an  illness ; — some- 
thing that  would  pass? — You  see  it  too, 
Milly? — And  you  will  be  happy  with  me 
again  ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  dearest  Christina/' 

Still  smiling,  Christina  closed  her  eyes  and 
Milly  laid  her  back  upon  her  pillows.  Her 
fingers  closed  tightly  on  Milly's  hand.  "It  has 
passed,"  she  said.  "It  could  not  have  been 
right.  You  were  everything  to  me.  And  he 
could  not  have  seen  the  pictures,  the  jewels, 
Milly;  or  heard  the  music." 

"No,   dear,   no."     Milly   covered  her   own 


256         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

eyes.  Ah ! — those  cravings  to  which  Christina 
had  responded; — now  so  dead. 

"I  shall  get  better,"  said  Christina.  "I  feel 
it  now ;  I  know  it.  I  shall  get  better  and  be  al- 
ways with  you.  My  darling.  My  Milly.  My 
little  Milly."  Her  voice  had  sunken  to  a 
shrouded  whisper. 

Held  by  those  cold,  clutching  fingers,  Milly 
sat  sobbing.  Christina  would  not  get  better; 
and,  with  horror  at  herself,  she  knew  that  only 
at  the  gates  of  death  could  she  love  Christina 
and  be  with  her.  And,  glancing  round  at  the 
head  on  the  pillow — ah! — poor  head! — Chris- 
tina's wonderful  head! — more  wonderful  than 
ever  now,  so  eager,  so  doomed,  so  white,  with 
all  its  flood  of  black,  black  hair — glancing  at 
its  ebony  and  marble,  she  saw  that  she  need 
have  no  fear  of  life.  Christina  would  not  get 
better. 

She  spoke  again,  brokenly.  "If  you  had 
loved  him,  you  would  have  hated  me.  Now 
you  will  never  hate  me." 

"I  love  you." 

"You  will  not  send  for  him?  You  will  not 
see  him  alone  ?  You  will  stay  with  me  ?" 

"I  will  stay  with  you." 

"And  be  glad  with  me  again." 

"With  you  again,  dear  Christina." 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE         257 

"I  shall  get  better,"  Christina  repeated,  turn- 
ing her  head  on  Milly's  arm.  But  the  disar- 
ray of  her  mind  still  whispered  on  in  vague 
fragments. — "It  was  not  useless. — I  was  right. 
— I  did  not  need  to  tell ;  you  were  mine ;  I  had 
not  lost  you." 

A  few  hours  afterwards,  her  head  still  turned 
on  Milly's  arm,  Christina  died. 


Sitting  alone  on  a  winter  day  in  the  library 
of  Chawlton,  Milly  heard  the  sound  of  a  motor 
outside.  Since  Christina's  death  she  had  shut 
herself  away,  refusing  to  see  anyone,  and  she 
listened  now  with  apathetic  interest,  expecting 
to  hear  the  retreating  wheels.  But  the  motor 
did  not  move  away.  Instead,  after  some  delay 
at  the  door,  steps  crossed  the  hall,  familiar, 
wonderful,  dear  and  terrible.  Dick  had  re- 
turned. 

All  the  irony  and  humiliation  of  her  married 
life  rose  before  her  as  she  felt  herself  trem- 
bling, flushing,  with  the  joy  and  terror.  He 
had  come  back ;  and  so  he  had  not  guessed.  Or 
was  it  that  he  had  guessed  and  yet  was  too  kind 
not  to  come?  She  had  only  time  to  snatch  at 
conjecture,  for  Dick  was  before  her. 

Dick's  demeanour  was  as  unemphatic  as  she 

*7 


258          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

remembered  it  always  to  have  been.  It  was  al- 
most as  casual  as  if  he  had  returned  from  a 
day's  hunting  merely.  Yet  there  was  differ- 
ence, too,  though  what  it  was  her  hurrying 
thoughts  could  not  seize.  She  felt  it  as  a  radi- 
ance of  pity,  warm  and  almost  vehement. 

"My  dear  Milly,"  he  said  coming  to  her  and 
taking  her  hand;  "I  only  heard  yesterday. — I 
only  got  back  yesterday. — And  I  felt'  that  I 
must  see  you.  I'm  not  going  to  bother  you  in 
any  way.  I've  only  come  down  for  the  after- 
noon. But  I  wanted  to  ask  you  if  I  could  do 
anything — help  you  in  any  way,  be  of  any  use." 
In  spite  of  his  schooled  voice  his  longing  to  see 
her,  his  delight  in  seeing  her,  showed  in  his 
clouded,  candid  eyes.  Milly  felt  it  as  the  dif- 
ference, the  vague  warmth  and  radiance. 

"How  kind  of  you,  dear  Dick,"  she  said,  and 
her  poor  voice  groped  vainly  for  firmness.  "I 
am  so  glad  to  see  you.  It  was  good  of  you  to 
come.  Yes ;  it  has  been  dreadful.  You  know ; 
— Christina — our  friendship" — But  how  con- 
fess to  Dick  her  remorse  or  explain  to  Dick 
why  she  had  left  Christina  ?  Her  pride  broke. 
With  this  human  kindness  near  her,  she  could 
not  maintain  the  decorum  of  their  tangled  rela- 
tions as  man  and  woman ;  the  simple  human  re- 
lation alone  became  the  most  real  one;  the 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          259 

loneliness  and  the  grief  of  a  child  overwhelmed 
her.  She  sank,  sobbing  helplessly,  into  her 
chair. 

"Oh — Milly!" — said  poor  Dick  Quentyn. 
And  the  longing  to  comfort  and  console  effac- 
ing his  diffidence  and  the  memory  of  her  long 
unkindness  towards  himself,  he  knelt  down  be- 
side her  and  took  her  into  his  arms. 

Milly  then  said  and  did  what  she  could  never 
have  believed  herself  capable  of  saying  and  do- 
ing. No  pride  could  hold  her  from  it,  no  dig- 
nity, not  even  common  shame.  She  could  not 
keep  herself  from  dropping  her  face  on  his 
shoulder  and  sobbing; — "Oh — Dick — try — try 
to  love  me  again.  I  am  cold  and  selfish.  I 
have  behaved  cruelly  to  everyone  who  loved 
me ; — but  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer." 

It  was  a  startling  moment  for  Dick  Quentyn, 
the  most  startling  of  his  life.  "Try  to  love 
you?"  he  stammered.  He  pushed  her  back  to 
look  at  her.  "What  do  you  mean,  Milly?" 

"What  I  say,"  Milly  gasped. 

"But  what  does  it  mean?"  Dick  repeated. 
"It  isn't  for  you  to  ask  me  to  love  you.  You 
know  I  love  you.  You  know  there's  never 
been  another  woman  in  the  world  for  me  but 
you.  It's  you  who  have  never  loved  me, 
Milly." 


2<5o         A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

Her  appeal  had  been  like  a  diving  under 
deep  waters — she  had  not  known  when  or 
where  or  how  she  would  come  up  again.  Now 
she  opened  her  eyes  and  stared  at  her  husband. 
She  seemed,  after  that  whirlpool  moment  of 
abysmal  shame,  to  have  come  up  from  the  fur- 
ther reaches  of  darkness,  and  it  was  under  new, 
bewildering  skies.  Strange  stars  made  her 
dizzy. 

"Then  why  didn't  you  come  and  say  good- 
bye to  me — that  day — in  London  this  spring  ?" 
was  all  she  found  to  say. 

Dick  was  not  stupid  now.  The  lover's  code 
was  at  last  open  between  them,  and  he  as  well 
as  she  could  read  the  significance  of  seemingly 
trivial  words. 

"Did  you  expect  me  ?"  he  asked. 

"Of  course  I  expected  you.  I  thought  you 
saw  how  much,"  said  Milly. 

"I  didn't  think  you  expected  me  at  all;  why 
should  I  have  thought  it?  But  I  did  come. 
Didn't  you  know  it?"  said  Dick. 

"You  did  come?"  In  its  extremity  her  as- 
tonishment was  mild. 

"That  is  to  say — I  never  got  there.  Mrs. 
Drent  met  me.  She  told  me  how  you'd  gone  to 
sleep,  you  know.  She  thought  you'd  gone  to 
sleep,  Milly.  She  didn't  know  you  expected 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          261 

me  either,  you  see.  It  was  in  the  park  we 
talked,  just  there  by  the  rhododendrons." 

"She  told  you  I  had  gone  to  sleep  ? — But  why 
did  that  keep  you  from  coming?"  Milly  had 
suddenly  risen  to  her  feet.  She  had  grown 
pale. 

"Why — it  was  obvious — you  wouldn't  want 
to  be  disturbed.  She  said  that.  And — every- 
thing else.  She  told  me — for  I  confided  in  her 
then — she'd  always  been  so  kind  to  me;  and  I 
thought  she  might  help  me — but  she  told  me 
how  little  you  cared  for  me." 

Milly  had  grasped  his  shoulder  as  she  stood 
above  him.  "What  did  Christina  tell  you? 
What  did  she  say  about  me?  Let  me  under- 
stand." 

"Why,  Milly— what  is  it?— She  told  me— I 
didn't  blame  you,  though  it  hurt,  most  uncon- 
scionably— because  I'd  always  believed  that,  in 
spite  of  everything,  you  had  some  sort  of  kindly 
feeling  for  me — as  though  I'd  been  a  well-in- 
tentioned dog  who  didn't  mean  to  get  in  your 
way — she  told  me  that  I  mustn't  have  any 
hopes.  And  she  told  me  that  that  very  winter 
you  had  said  to  her  that  you'd  feel  my  death  less 
than  that  of  any  of  the  men  who  came  to  tea 
with  you.  Yes,  she  told  me  so,  Milly — and 
wasn't  it  true  ?" 


262          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

Milly  now  looked  away  from  him  and  round 
at  the  room,  stupor  on  her  face.  "Yes,  it  was 
true  I  said  it,"  she  said  in  the  voice  of  a  sleep- 
walker. "Yes ;  I  said  it,  Dick.  But  it  was  so 
long  ago.  How  did  she  remember? — And  I 
knew  when  I  said  it  that  it  wasn't  true." 

"But  she  thought  it  was  true."  Dick  now 
had  risen,  and  he,  too,  very  pale,  looked  at  his 
wife. 

"Yes;  then,  she  may  have  thought  it.  I 
wanted  her  to  think  it  because  I  did  not  want 
her  to  guess  how  much  I  was  getting  to  care. 
But,  afterwards — after  you  had  come  back — 
she  did  not  think  it  then.  She  knew,  then, 
everything.  She  knew  before  I  did.  It  was 
she  who  showed  it  to  me. — Oh,  Dick! — She 
knew  that  I  loved  you — and  she  kept  you  from 
coming  to  me !"  She  was  gazing  at  him  now, 
stupefied,  horrified,  yet  enraptured.  It  was  of 
him  she  thought,  her  lover,  her  husband,  rather 
than  of  the  unhappy  woman  who  had  parted 
them.  But  Dick  still  did  not  see. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Milly  ?"  he  said.  "Kept 
me  from  coming?  But  she  loved  you,  Milly? 
She'd  given  her  life  to  you.  You  can't  mean 
what  you  are  saying." 

"Yes,"  Milly  kept  her  grasp  of  his  shoulder. 
"It  is  true.  She  loved  me,  but  it  was  a  mad- 


A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE          263 

ness  of  jealousy.  Her  love  was  a  prison.  I 
told  her  so.  We  spoke  of  it  all  on  that  day, 
when  she  came  back  from  seeing  you  and  did 
not  tell  me  that  she  had  seen  you.  I  told  her 
that  her  love  was  a  prison  and  that  she  had 
kept  you  from  me,  and  that  I  was  going  to 
leave  her.  And  even  then  she  did  not  tell  me. 
We  parted  and  I  did  not  see  her  again  until  the 
day  she  died.  She  sent  for  me  to  come  to  her. 
Yes — "  her  eyes,  deep  with  joy  and  horror, 
were  on  him. — "That  is  what  she  was  going  to 
confess  to  me;  and  died  without  confessing. 
She  kept  us  apart  because  she  knew  that  we 
loved  each  other  and  she  could  not  bear  to  give 
me  up." 

They  stood  in  the  firelight  and  he  took  her 
hands  and  they  looked  at  each  other  as  though, 
after  long  wanderings,  they  had  found  each 
other  at  last.  There  would  yet  be  much  to  tell 
and  to  explain,  but  Dick  saw  now  what  had  hap- 
pened. Only  after  many  moments  of  grave 
mutual  survey,  did  he  say,  gently,  with  a  sud- 
den acute  wonder  and  pity — "Poor  thing." 

"Horrible,  oh  horrible!"  said  Milly,  leaning 
her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "You  might  have 
died  away  from  me — never  knowing. — I  might 
never  have  seen  you  again. — Horrible  woman ! 
— Horrible  love." 


264          A  FORSAKEN  TEMPLE 

"Poor  thing,"  Dick  repeated  gently.  He 
kissed  his  wife's  forehead  and,  his  arm  around 
her; — "I  haven't  died. — She  is  dead.  I  do  see 
you  again. — She  doesn't  see  you.  I  have  got 
you. — She  has  lost  you." 

Milly  still  shuddered;  she  still  looked  down 
the  black  precipice,  only  just  escaped.  "Yes, 
she  has  lost  me  for  ever.  I  wish  I  did  not  feel 
that  I  hate  her ;  but  I  do.  It  may  be  cruel,  it  is 
cruel.  But  all  that  I  can  feel  for  her  now  is 
hatred." 

"Ah — but  she  loved  you  tremendously.  And 
she's  dead,"  said  Dick.  "All  that  I  can  feel  is 
that." 

But  Milly  only  said:  "I  love  you  all  the 
more  for  feeling  it." 


MISS  JONES  AND  THE  MASTERPIECE 


MISS   JONES    AND    THE 
MASTERPIECE 

CHAPTER  I 

'AT ANON  LESCAUT,"  Carrington  re- 
JLV-l  peated.  He  did  not  show  any  particu- 
lar enthusiasm. 

"Yes,  Manon  Lescaut.  I  see  the  thing.  It 
would  be  really  superb." 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,  my  dear  boy,  that 
you  are  falling  into  anecdote?  You  are  not 
going  to  degrade  your  canvas  with  painted  lit- 
erature?" 

Carrington's  voice  betrayed  some  concern, 
for  he  took  a  friendly  interest  in  my  career. 

"The  title — a  mere  label — suggests  it.  But 
nothing  of  the  sort.  I  am  going  to  paint  a  por- 
trait of  Manon — and  of  her  ilk." 

"A  portrait?" 

"Yes ;  the  portrait  of  a  type." 

Carrington  smoked  on,  stretched  comfort- 
267 


268  MISS  JONES  AND 

ably  in  a  chair.  His  feet  were  on  another 
chair,  and  the  broad  soles  of  his  slippers  so  dis- 
played implied  ease  and  intimacy. 

"It  will  look  like  the  portrait  of  an  actress  in 
character;  a  costume  picture,"  he  said,  pres- 
ently; "the  label  isn't  suggestive  to  me." 

"There  will,  I  promise  you,  be  no  trace  of 
commonplace  realism  in  it.  It  will  be  Velas- 
quez dashed  with  Watteau.  Can  you  realize 
the  modest  flight  of  my  imagination?  Seri- 
ously, Carrington,  I  intend  to  paint  a  master- 
piece. I  intend  to  paint  a  woman  who  would 
sell  her  soul  for  pleasure — a  conscienceless, 
fascinating  egotist — a  corrupt  charmer — saved 
by  a  certain  naivete.  The  eighteenth  century, 
in  fact,  en  grisette." 

"Manon  rather  redeemed  herself  at  the 
end,  if  I  remember  rightly,"  Carrington  ob- 
served. 

"Or  circumstances  redeemed  her,  if  you  will. 
She  had  a  heart,  perhaps;  it  never  made  her 
uncomfortable.  Her  love  was  of  the  doubtful 
quality  that  flies  out  of  the  window  as  want 
comes  in  at  the  door.  Oh !  she  was  a  sweet  lit- 
tle scelerate.  I  shall  paint  the  type — the  little 
scelerate." 

"Well,  of  course,  everything  would  depend 
on  the  treatment." 


THE  MASTERPIECE  269 

"Everything.  I  am  going  to  astonish  you 
there,  Carrington." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Carrington 
said,  good-humouredly. 

"I  see  already  the  golden  gray  of  her  dim 
white  boudoir;  the  satins,  the  laces,  the  high- 
heeled  shoes,  the  rigid  little  waist,  and  face  of 
pretty  depravity.  The  face  is  the  thing — the 
key.  Where  find  the  face?  I  think  of  a  trip 
to  Paris  on  purpose.  One  sees  the  glancing 
creature — such  as  I  have  in  my  mind — there, 
now  and  then.  I  want  a  fresh  pallor,  and  gay, 
lazy  eyes — light-brown,  not  too  large." 

"I  fancy  I  know  of  someone,"  Carrington 
said,  meditatively.  "Not  that  she's  dans  le 
caractere,"  he  added:  "not  at  all;  anything  but 
depraved.  But — her  face;  you  could  select." 
Carrington  mused.  "The  line  of  her  cheek  is, 
I  remember,  mockingly  at  variance  with  her 
staid  innocence  of  look." 

"Who  is  she?  Manon  could  look  innocent, 
you  know — was  so,  after  a  fashion.  I  should 
like  a  touch  of  childish  insouciance.  Who  is 
she,  and  how  can  I  get  her  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Carrington,  taking  his  pipe 
from  his  lips  and  contemplating  the  fine  col- 
ouring of  the  bowl,  "she's  a  lady,  for  one 
thing." 


270  MISS  JONES  AND 

"Oh,  the  devil!"  I  ejaculated;  "that  won't 
do!" 

"Well,  it  might." 

"Shouldn't  fancy  it.  Ill  at  ease  on  her  ac- 
count, you  know.  How  could  one  tell  a  lady 
that  she  was  out  of  pose — must  sit  still  ?  How 
could  one  pay  her  ?" 

"Very  simple,  if  she's  the  real  article." 

"I  never  tried  it,"  I  demurred. 

"Well" — Carrington  had  a  soothing  way  of 
beginning  a  sentence — "you  might  see  her,  at 
least.  Her  father  is  a  socialist;  a  very  harm- 
less and  unnecessary  one,  but  that  accounts  for 
her  posing." 

"Do  the  paternal  unconventionalities  coun- 
tenance posing  for  the  academic?  That  savors 
of  a  really  disconcerting  latitude." 

"The  academic ?  Dear  me,  no!  Oh,  no; 
Miss  Jones  is  a  model  of  the  proprieties.  One 
indeed  can  hardly  connect  her  with  even  such 
mild  nonconformity  as  her  father's  socialism. 
He  was  a  parson;  had  religious  scruples,  and 
took  to  rather  aimless  humanitarianism  and  to 
very  excellent  bookbinding  in  Hampstead.  He 
binds  a  lot  of  my  books  for  me;  and  jolly  good 
designing  and  tooling,  too.  You  remember 
that  Petrarch  of  mine.  That's  really  how  I 
came  to  know  him.  It  was  the  artist  in  him 


THE  MASTERPIECE  271 

that  wrestled  with  and  overthrew  the  parson. 
He  seems  a  happy  old  chap ;  poor  as  Job's  turkey 
and  absorbed  in  his  work.  He  has  rather  long- 
ish  hair — wavy,  and  wears  a  leather  belt  and 
no  collar."  Carrington  added:  "That's  the 
first  socialistic  declaration  of  independence — 
they  fling  their  collars  in  the  face  of  conven- 
tionality. But  the  belt  and  the  lack  of  collar 
are  the  only  noticeable  traces  socialism  seems 
to  have  left  on  Mr.  Jones,  except  that  he  lets 
his  daughter  make  money  by  posing.  He  must 
know  about  the  people,  of  course.  She  usually 
sits  for  women.  But  I  can  give  you  a  recom- 
mendation." 

I  felt,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  same  lack  of 
enthusiasm  that  Carrington  himself  had  shown 
at  the  announcement  of  my  "label,"  but  I 
thanked  him,  and  said  that  I  should  be  glad  to 
see  Miss  Jones. 

"And  her  mother  was  French,  too,"  he 
added,  as  a  cogent  afterthought.  "That  ac- 
counts for  the  rippled  cheek-line."  Miss 
Jones's  cheek  had  evidently  made  an  emphatic 
impression.  Indeed,  Carrington's  enthusiasm 
seemed  to  wax  on  reflection,  and,  as  interpreted 
by  Miss  Jones,  my  Manon  became  tangible. 

"How's  her  colouring?"  I  asked. 

"Pale;  her  mouth  is  red,  very  red;  charming 


272  MISS  JONES  AND 

figure,  nice  hands ;  I  remember  them  taking  up 
the  books — she  was  dusting  the  books.  I've 
only  seen  her  once  or  twice;  but  I  noticed  her, 
and  she  struck  me  as  a  type — of  something." 

The  pale  skin  and  red  mouth  rather  pleased 
me,  and  it  was  arranged  that  Carrington  should 
see  Mr.  Jones,  and,  if  possible,  make  an  ap- 
pointment for  Miss  Jones  to  call  on  Monday 
afternoon  at  my  studio. 

Carrington  had  rooms  next  door,  in  the  little 
court  of  artists'  quarters  in  Chelsea. 

Carrington  wrote  reviews  and  collected  all 
sorts  of  expensive  things,  chiefly  old  books  and 
Chinese  porcelain.  He  and  I  had  art-for-art 
sympathies,  and,  being  lucky  young  men  from  a 
monetary  point  of  view,  we  could  indulge  our 
propensities  with  a  happy  indifference  to  suc- 
cess. 

I  had  painted  now  for  a  good  many  years, 
both  in  Paris  and  in  London,  and  had  a  pleas- 
ant little  reputation  among  people  it  was  worth 
while  to  please,  and  a  hearty  and  encouraging 
philistine  opposition.  I  had  even  shocked  Mrs. 
Grundy  in  an  Academy  picture  which  wasn't 
at  all  shocking  and  was  very  well  painted,  and 
I  had  aroused  controversy  in  the  pages  of  the 
Saturday  Review. 

1  felt  Manon  Lescaut. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  273 

This  epitome  of  the  soullessness  of  the  eight- 
eenth century  whirled  in  its  satin  frivolity 
through  all  my  waking  thoughts. 

On  Monday  I  awaited  Miss  Jones,  fervently 
hoping  that  her  face  would  do. 

Punctual  to  the  minute  came  the  young 
lady's  rap  at  my  door.  I  ushered  her  in.  She 
was  rather  small;  and  self-possessed,  very.  In 
the  cut  of  her  serge  frock  and  the  line  of  her 
little  hat  over  her  eyebrows  I  fancied  I  saw  a 
touch  of  the  mother's  nationality.  With  a 
most  business-like  air  she  removed  this  hat, 
carefully  replacing  the  pins  in  the  holes  they 
had  already  traversed,  took  off  her  coat  (it  was 
February),  and  turned  to  the  light.  She 
would  do.  Evident  and  delightful  fact!  I  at 
once  informed  her  of  it.  She  asked  if  she 
should  sit  that  morning.  I  said  that,  as  I  had 
sketches  to  make  before  deciding  on  pose  and 
effect  of  light,  the  sooner  she  would  enter  upon 
her  professional  duties  the  better. 

The  gown  I  had  already  discovered — a  trou- 
vaille and  genuinely  of  the  epoch;  an  enticing 
pink  silk  with  glowing  shadows. 

Miss  Jones  made  no  comment  on  the  exqui- 
site thing  which  I  laid  lovingly  on  her  arm. 
She  retired  with  a  brisk,  calm  step  behind  the 
tall  screen  in  the  corner. 


18 


274  MISS  JONES  AND 

When  she  reappeared  in  the  dress,  the  old 
whites  of  the  muslins  at  elbows  and  breast  fall- 
ing and  folding  on  a  skin  like  milk,  I  felt  my 
heart  rise  in  a  devout  ejaculation  of  utter  con- 
tentment. The  Manon  of  my  dreams  stood 
before  me.  The  expression  certainly  was 
wanting;  I  should  have  to  compass  it  by  anal- 
ogy. My  imagination  had  grasped  it,  and  I 
should  realize  the  type  by  the  aid  of  Miss 
Jones's  pale  face,  narrowing  to  a  chin  the 
French  would  call  mutin,  her  curled  lips  and 
curiously  set  eyes,  wide  apart,  and  the  brows 
that  swept  ever  so  slightly  upward.  The  very 
way  in  which  her  fair  hair  grew  in  a  little  peak 
on  the  forehead,  and  curved  silky  and  unrippled 
to  a  small  knot  placed  high,  fulfilled  my  aspira- 
tions, though  the  hair  must  be  powdered  and  in 
it  the  vibrating  black  of  a  bow. 

Miss  Jones  stood  very  well,  conscientiously 
and  with  intelligence.  Pose  and  effect  were 
soon  decided  upon,  and  in  a  day  or  two  I  was 
regularly  at  work,  delighting  in  it,  and  with  a 
sensation  of  power  and  certainty  I  had  rarely 
experienced. 

Carrington  came  in  quite  frequently,  and, 
looking  from  my  canvas  to  Miss  Jones,  would 
pronounce  the  drawing  wonderfully  felt. 

"Degas  wouldn't  be  ashamed  of  the  line  of 


THE  MASTERPIECE  275 

the  neck,"  he  said.  'The  turn  and  lift  of  her 
head  as  she  looks  sideways  in  the  mirror  is 
really  emouvant,  life;  good  idea;  in  character; 
centred  on  herself;  not  bent  on  conquest  and 
staring  it  at  you.  Manon  had  not  that 
trait" 

Miss  Jones  on  the  stand  gazed  obediently 
into  the  mirror,  the  dim  white  of  an  eighteenth 
century  boudoir  about  her.  She  was  alto- 
gether a  most  posee,  well-behaved  young  per- 
son. 

One  could  not  call  her  manner  discreet;  it 
was  far  too  self-confident  for  that.  Her 
silence  was  natural,  not  assumed.  During  the 
rests  she  would  return  to  a  book. 

I  asked  her  one  day  what  she  was  reading. 
She  replied,  looking  up  with  polite  calm : 

"  'Donovan/  " 

"Oh!"  was  all  I  could  find  in  comment.  It 
did  rather  surprise  me  in  a  girl  whose  eyes 
were  set  in  that  most  appreciative  way  and 
whose  father,  as  a  socialistic  bookbinder, 
might  have  inculcated  more  advanced  literary 
tastes.  Still,  she  was  very  young;  this  fact 
seemed  emphasized  by  the  innocent  white  the 
back  of  her  neck  presented  to  me  as  she  re- 
turned to  her  reading. 

When  I  came  to  painting,  I  found  that  my 


276  MISS  JONES  AND 

good  luck  accompanied  me,  and  that  inspiring 
sense  of  mastery.  Effort,  yes;  but  achieve- 
ment followed  it  with  a  sort  of  inevitableness. 
I  tasted  the  joys  of  the  arduous  facility  which 
is  the  fruition  of  years  of  toil. 

The  limpid  grays  seemed  to  me  to  equal 
Whistler's;  the  pinks — flaming  in  shadow,  sil- 
vered in  the  light — suggested  Velasquez  to  my 
happy  young  vanity;  the  warm  whites,  Chardin 
would  have  acknowledged;  yet  they  were  all 
my  own,  seen  through  my  own  eyes,  not 
through  the  eyes  of  Chardin,  Whistler,  or  Ve- 
lasquez. The  blacks  sung  emphatic  or  soft- 
ened notes  from  the  impertinent  knot  in  the 
powdered  hair  to  the  bows  on  skirt  and  bodice. 
The  rich  empdtement  was  a  triumph  of  supple 
brush-work.  I  can  praise  it  impudently  for  it 
was  my  masterpiece,  and — well,  I  will  keep  to 
the  consecutive  recital. 

Miss  Jones  showed  no  particular  fellow-feel- 
ing for  my  work,  and  as,  after  a  fashion,  she, 
too,  was  responsible  for  it  and  had  a  right  to 
be  proud  of  it,  this  lack  of  interest  rather  irri- 
tated me. 

Now  and  then,  poised  delicately  on  high 
heels  and  in  her  rustling  robes,  she  would 
step  up  to  my  canvas,  give  it  a  pleasant  but 
impassive  look,  and  then  turn  away,  resum- 


THE  MASTERPIECE  277 

ing  her  chair  and  the  perusal  of  her  romance. 

It  really  irked  me  after  a  time.  However 
little  .value  I  might  set  upon  her  artistic  acu- 
men, this  silence  in  my  rose  of  pride  pricked 
like  a  thorn. 

Miss  Jones's  taste  in  painting  might  be  as 
philistine  as  in  literature,  but  her  reserve 
aroused  conjecture,  and  I  became  really  anx- 
ious for  an  expression  of  opinion. 

At  last,  one  day,  my  curiosity  burst  forth : 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  I  asked,  while  she 
stood  contemplating  my  chef-d'oeuvre  with  a 
brightly  indifferent  gaze.  Miss  Jones  turned 
upon  me  her  agate  eyes — the  eyelashes  curled 
up  at  the  corners,  and  it  was  difficult  not  to  be- 
lieve the  eyes,  too,  roguish. 

"I  should  think  you  had  a  great  deal  of  tal- 
ent," she  said.  "Have  you  studied  long?" 

Studied?  It  required  some  effort  to  adjust 
my  thoughts  to  the  standard  implied;  but  per- 
ceiving a  perhaps  lofty  conception  of  artistic 
attainment  beneath  the  query,  I  replied : 

"Well,  an  artist  is  never  done  learning,  is 
he  ?  And  in  the  sense  of  having  much  to  learn, 
I  am  still  a  student,  no  doubt." 

"Ah,  yes,"  Miss  Jones  replied. 

She  looked  from  my  picture  up  at  the  sky- 
light, then  round  at  the  various  studies,  en- 


278  MISS  JONES  AND 

gravings,  and  photographs  on  the  walls.  This 
discursive  glance  was  already  familiar  to  me, 
and  its  flitting  lightness  whetted  my  curiosity 
as  to  possible  non-committal  depths  beneath. 

"Inspiration,  now,"  Miss  Jones  pursued,  sur- 
prising me  a  good  deal,  for  she  seldom  carried 
on  a  subject  unprompted,  "that  of  course,  is  not 
dependent  on  study." 

I  felt  in  this  remark  something  very  deroga- 
tory to  my  Manon — an  inspiration,  and  in  the 
best  sense,  if  ever  anything  was.  Did  Miss 
Jones  not  recognize  the  intellectual  triumphs 
embodied  in  that  presentment  of  frail  woman- 
hood? I  was  certainly  piqued,  though  I  re- 
plied very  good-humouredly : 

"I  had  rather  flattered  myself  that  my  pic- 
ture could  boast  of  that  quality." 

Miss  Jones's  glance  now  rested  on  me  rather 
seriously. 

"An  inspired  work  of  art  should  elevate  the 
mind." 

I  could  not  for  the  life  of  me  tell  whether  she 
was  really  rather  clever  or  merely  very  banal 
and  commonplace. 

"I  had  hoped,"  I  rejoined,  politely,  "that  my 
picture — as  a  beautiful  work  of  art — would 
also  possess  that  faculty." 

Miss  Jones  now  looked  at  the  clock,  and  re- 


THE  MASTERPIECE  279 

marked  that  it  was  time  to  pose.  She  mounted 
the  low  stand  and  I  resumed  my  palette  and 
brushes,  feeling  decidedly  snubbed.  Carring- 
ton  sauntered  in  shortly  after,  his  forefinger  in 
a  book  and  a  pipe  between  his  teeth.  He  apolo- 
gized to  Miss  Jones  for  the  latter,  and  wished 
to  know  if  she  objected.  Miss  Jones's  smile 
retained  all  its  unabashed  clearness  as  she  re- 
plied : 

"It  is  a  rather  nasty  smell,  I  think." 

Poor  Carrington,  decidedly  disconcerted, 
knocked  out  his  pipe  and  laid  it  down,  and  Miss 
Jones,  observing  him  affably  while  she  retained 
her  pose  to  perfection,  added:  "I  have  been 
brought  up  to  disapprove  of  smoking,  you  see; 
papa  doesn't  believe  in  tobacco." 

Miss  Jones's  aplomb  was  certainly  enough 
to  make  any  man  feel  awkward,  and  Carring- 
ton looked  so  as  he  came  up  beside  me  and  ex- 
amined my  work. 

"By  Jove!  Fletcher,"  he  said,  "the  resem- 
blance is  astonishing — and  the  lack  of  re- 
semblance. That's  the  triumph — the  material 
likeness,  the  spiritual  unlikeness." 

Indeed,  Miss  Jones  could  lay  no  claim  to  the 
"inspiration"  of  my  work;  in  intrinsic  charac- 
ter the  face  of  my  pretty  scelerate  was  in  no 
way  Miss  Jones's. 


280  MISS  JONES  AND 

"Charming,  charming,"  and  Carrington's  eye, 
passing  from  my  canvas,  rested  on  Miss  Jones. 

"Which?"  I  asked,  smiling,  and,  of  course, 
in  an  undertone. 

"It  depends,  my  dear  boy,  on  whether  you 
ask  me  if  I  prefer  Phryne  or  Priscilla — pagan 
or  puritan;  both  are  interesting  types,  and  the 
contrast  can  be  very  effectually  studied  here  in 
your  picture  and  your  model." 

"Yet  Priscilla  lends  herself  wonderfully  to 
be  interpreted  as  Phryne." 

"Or,  rather,  it  is  wonderful  that  you  should 
have  imagined  Manon  into  that  face." 

In  the  next  rest,  when  Carrington  had  gone, 
Miss  Jones  said: 

"Mr.  Carrington  walked  home  with  me  yes- 
terday. Papa  thinks  rather  highly  of  him.  It 
is  a  pity  his  life  should  be  so  pointless." 

It  began  to  be  borne  in  upon  me  that  Miss 
Jones  had  painfully  serious  ethical  convictions. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  from  the  socialistic 
standpoint,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  no — not  at  all;  I  am  not  a  socialist. 
Papa  and  I  agree  to  differ  upon  that  as  upon 
many  other  questions.  Socialism,  I  think, 
tends  to  revolt  and  license." 

I  did  not  pursue  the  subject  of  Carrington's 


THE  MASTERPIECE  281 

pointlessness  nor  proffer  a  plea  for  socialism. 
I  was  beginning  to  wince  rather  before  Miss 
Jones's  frankness. 

On  the  following  day  she  again  came  and 
stood  before  my  picture. 

"I  posed  for  Mr.  Watkins,  R.A.,  last  year," 
she  said.  "The  picture  was  in  the  Academy. 
Did  you  see  it?  It  was  beautiful." 

The  mere  name  of  Mr.  Watkins  ("R.A.") 
made  every  drop  of  aesthetic  blood  in  my  body 
curdle.  A  conscienceless  old  prater  of  the  soap 
and  salve  school,  with  not  as  much  idea  of 
drawing  or  value  as  a  two-year  Julianite. 

"I  don't  quite  remember,"  I  said,  rather 
faintly;  "what  was— the  picture  called?" 

'  'Faith  Conquers  Fear,'  "  said  Miss  Jones. 
"I  posed  as  a  Christian  maiden,  you  know,  tied 
to  a  stake  in  the  Roman  amphitheatre  and  wait- 
ing martyrdom.  The  maiden  was  in  a  white 
robe,  her  hair  hanging  over  her  shoulders  (per- 
haps you  would  not  recognize  me  in  this  cos- 
tume), looking  up,  her  hands  crossed  on  her 
breast.  Before  her  stood  a  jibing  Roman. 
One  could  see  it  all;  the  contrast  between  the 
base  product  of  a  vicious  civilization  and  the 
noble  maiden.  One  could  read  it  all  in  their 
faces; 'hers  supreme  aspiration,  his  brutal  ha- 


282  MISS  JONES  AND 

tred.  It  was  superb.  It  made  one  want  to 
cry." 

Miss  Jones,  while  speaking,  looked  so  ex- 
ceedingly beautiful  that  I  almost  forgot  my 
dismay  at  her  atrocious  taste;  for  Watkins's 
"Faith  Conquers  Fear"  had  been  one  of  the 
jokes  of  the  year — a  lamentably  crude,  preten- 
tious presentation  of  a  theatrical  subject  repro- 
duced extensively  in  ladies'  papers  and  fatally 
popular. 

At  the  same  moment,  and  as  I  looked  from 
Miss  Jones's  gravely  enrapt  expression  to 
Manon's  seductive  graces,  I  experienced  a  sen- 
sation of  extreme  discomfort. 

"I  think  a  picture  should  have  high  and  noble 
aims/'  Miss  Jones  pursued,  seeing  that  I  re- 
mained silent,  and  evidently  considering  the 
time  come  when  duty  required  her  to  speak  and 
to  speak  freely.  "A  picture  should  leave  one 
better  for  having  seen  it." 

I  could  not  ignore  the  kind  but  firmly  severe 
criticism  implied;  I  could  not  but  revolt  from 
this  Hebraistic  onslaught. 

"I  don't  admit  a  conscious  moral  aim  in  art," 
I  said.  "Art  need  only  concern  itself  with  be- 
ing beautiful  and  interesting ;  the  rest  will  fol- 
low. But  a  badly-painted  picture  certainly 
makes  me  feel  wicked,  and  when  I  go  to  the 


THE  MASTERPIECE  283 

National  Gallery  to  have  a  look  at  the  Velas- 
quezes  and  Veroneses  I  feel  the  better  for  it." 

"Velasquez?"  Miss  Jones  repeated.  "Ah, 
well,  I  prefer  the  old  masters — I  mean  those 
who  painted  religious  subjects  as  no  one  since 
has  painted  them.  Why  did  not  Velasquez,  at 
least,  as  he  could  not  rise  to  the  ideal,  paint 
beautiful  people?  I  never  have  been  able  to 
care  for  mere  ugliness,  however  cleverly 
copied." 

I  felt  buffeted  by  her  complacent  crudity. 

"Velasquez  had  no  soul,"  she  added. 

"No  soul !  Why  he  paints  life,  character, 
soul,  everything !  Copied !  What  of  his  splen- 
did decorativeness,  his  colour,  his  atmosphere?" 
My  ejaculations  left  her  calm  unruffled. 

"Ah,  but  all  that  doesn't  make  the  world  any 
better,"  she  returned,  really  with  an  air  of  hu- 
mouring a  silly  materialism;  and  as  she  went 
back  to  her  pose  she  added,  very  kindly,  for  my 
face  probably  revealed  my  injured  feelings: 

"You  see  I  have  rather  serious  views  of 
life." 

"Miss  Jones — really !"  I  laid  down  my  pal- 
ette. "I  must  beg  of  you  to  believe  that  I  have, 
too — very  serious." 

Gently  Miss  Jones  shook  her  head,  looking", 
not  at  me,  but  down  into  the  mirror.  This  ef- 


284  MISS  JONES  AND 

feet  of  duty  fulfilled,  even  in  opposition,  was 
most  characteristic. 

"I  cannot  believe  it,"  she  said,  "else  why, 
when  you  have  facility,  talent,  and  might  em- 
ploy them  on  a  higher  subject,  do  you  paint  a 
mere  study  of  a  vain  young  lady?" 

This  interpretation  of  Manon  startled  me,  so 
lacking  was  it  in  comprehension. 

"Manon  Lescaut  was  more  than  a  vain  young 
lady,  Miss  Jones." 

"Well,"  Miss  Jones  lifted  her  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment to  smile  quietly,  soothingly  at  me.  "I  am 
not  imputing  any  wrong  to  Miss  Manon  Les- 
caut; I  merely  say  that  she  is  vain.  A  harm- 
less vanity  no  doubt,  but  I  have  posed  for  other 
characters,  you  see !"  Her  smile  was  so  charm- 
ing in  its  very  fatuity  that  the  vision  of  her 
lovely  face,  vulgarized  and  unrecognizable  in 
"Faith  Conquers  Fear,"  filled  me  with  re- 
doubled exasperation.  Her  misinterpretation 
of  Manon  stirred  a  certain  deepening  of  that 
touch  of  discomfort — a  sickly  unpleasantness. 
I  found  myself  flushing. 

Miss  Jones's  white  hand — the  hand  that  held 
the  mirror  with  such  beauty  in  taper  finger- 
tips and  turn  of  wrist — fell  to  her  side,  and  she 
fixed  her  eyes  on  me  with  quite  a  troubled  look. 

"I  am  afraid  I  have  hurt  your  feelings,"  she 


THE  MASTERPIECE  285 

said;  "I  am  very  sorry.  I  always  speak  my 
mind  out ;  I  never  think  that  it  may  hurt.  It  is 
very  dull  in  me." 

At  these  words  I  felt  that  unpleasant  stir 
spring  suddenly  to  a  guilty  misery.  I  felt, 
somehow,  that  I  was  a  shameful  hypocrite,  and 
Miss  Jones  a  priggish  but  most  charming  and 
most  injured  angel. 

"Miss  Jones,"  I  said,  much  confused,  "sin- 
cerity cannot  really  hurt  me,  and  I  always  re- 
spect it.  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,  that  you  see 
no  more  in  my  picture.  I  care  for  your  good 
opinion"  (this  was  certainly,  in  a  sense,  a  lie, 
and  yet,  for  the  moment,  that  guilty  conscious- 
ness upon  me,  I  believed  it),  "and  I  hope  that 
though  my  picture  has  not  gained  it,  I,  person- 
ally, may  never  forfeit  it." 

Still  looking  at  me  gravely,  Miss  Jones 
said: 

"I  don't  think  you  ever  will.  That  is  a  very 
manly,  a  very  noble  way  of  looking  at  it." 

But  the  thought  of  Manon  Lescaut  now  tor- 
mented me.  I  had  finished  the  head;  my  pre- 
occupation could  not  harm  that ;  but  this  lovely 
face  looking  into  the  mirror,  with  soulless, 
happy  eyes,  seemed  to  slide  a  smile  at  me,  a 
smile  of  malicious  comprehension,  a  smile  of 
nous  nous  entendons,  a  smile  that  made  a  butt 


286  MISS  JONES  AND 

of  Miss  Jones's  innocence  and  laughed  with  me 
at  the  joke. 

I  soon  found  myself  rebelling  against 
Manon's  intrusion.  I  wished  to  assure  her 
that  we  had  nothing  in  common  and  that,  in 
Miss  Jones's  innocence,  I  found  no  amusing 
element. 

That  evening  Carrington  came  in.  He  wore 
a  rather  absorbed  look,  and  only  glanced  at  my 
picture.  After  absent  replies  to  my  desultory 
remarks,  he  suddenly  said,  from  his  chair : 

"I  walked  home  with  Miss  Jones  this  after- 
noon." Carrington,  with  his  ultra-aesthetic 
sensibilities,  must  find  Miss  Jones  even  more 
jarring  than  I  did,  and  his  act  implied  a  very 
kindly  interest. 

"That  was  nice  of  you,"  I  observed,  though 
at  the  mention  of  Miss  Jones  that  piercing  stab 
of  shame  again  went  through  me,  and  my  eyes 
unwillingly,  guiltily  sought  the  eyes  of  my  smil- 
ing Manon. 

"She  was  rather  troubled  about  something 
she  had  said,"  Carrington  pursued,  ignoring 
my  approbation,  "about  the  picture.  Of  course 
she  doesn't  know  anything  about  pictures." 

"No,"  I  murmured,  "she  doesn't." 

"By  Jove!"  added  Carrington,  "that's  the 
trouble.  She  doesn't  understand  anything !" 


THE  MASTERPIECE  287 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  I  mean  that  she  could  never  see  cer- 
tain things  from  our  standpoint ;  she  is  as  igno- 
rant and  as  innocent  as  a  baby.  She's  never 
read  'Manon  Lescaut' — that  came  out  en  pas- 
sant— and,  by  Jove,  you  know,  it  does  seem  a 
beastly  shame!  A  girl  like  that!  A  snow- 
drop!" 

Carrington  cast  a  look  of  unmistakable  re- 
sentment at  my  poor  Manon. 

"Well,"  I  said,  lamely — indeed  I  felt  maimed 
— "how  was  I  to  know?  And  what  am  I  to 
do?" 

"Why,  my  dear  fellow,"  and  Carrington 
spoke  with  some  fierceness,  "you've  nothing  to 
do  with  it!  I'm  to  blame!  I  told  you  about 
her.  Said  she  had  the  type!  Dull,  blunder- 
ing fool  that  I  was  not  to  have  seen  the  shriek- 
ing incongruity!  The  rigidly  upright  soul  of 
her !  That  girl  couldn't  tell  a  lie  nor  look  one ; 
and  Manon!" 

Carrington  got  up  abruptly ;  evidently  his  dis- 
gust could  not  be  borne  in  a  quiescent  attitude. 

"You  said  at  the  first  that  her  face  was  in- 
nocent," I  suggested,  in  a  feeble  effort  to  miti- 
gate this  self-scorn;  "we  neither  of  us  mis- 
judged the  girl  for  a  moment,  though  we  over- 
looked her  ignorance." 


288  MISS  JONES  AND 

"Yes,  and  her  ignorance  makes  all  the  differ- 
ence. Another  girl — as  good,  to  all  intents  and 
purposes — might  know  and  not  object;  but  this 
one !  I  really  believe  it  would  half  kill  her !" 

Carrington  gave  another  savage  glance  at 
my  unlucky  picture,  and  his  gaze  lingered  on  it 
as  he  added : 

"If  it's  kept  from  her,  all's  well — as  well  as 
a  lie  can  be." 

And  then,  if  only  for  a  moment,  the  Greek 
gained  its  triumph  over  this  startling  exhibi- 
tion of  Hebraism. 

"It  is  a  masterpiece!"  said  Carrington, 
slowly,  adding  abruptly  as  he  went,  "Good- 
night!" 

But  my  night  was  very  bad.  Whatever  Miss 
Jones  might  say  or  think,  I  did  take  life  seri- 
ously. 


CHAPTER  II 

A  FEW  days  followed  in  which  Miss  Jones 
showed  herself  to  me  in  a  sweet  and  sof- 
tened mood,  the  mood  that  wishes  to  make 
amends  for  salutary  harshness.  My  meekness 
under  reproof  had  evidently  won  her  approba- 
tion. In  the  rests  she  talked  to  me.  She  gave 
me  her  opinions  upon  many  subjects,  and  very 
admirable  they  were  and  very  commonplace. 
One  thing  about  Miss  Jones,  however,  was  not 
commonplace.  She  would  certainly  act  up  to 
her  opinions.  Her  sense  of  duty  was  enor- 
mous; but  she  bore  it  pleasantly,  albeit  seri- 
ously. She  had  a  keen  flair  for  responsibilities. 
I  began  to  suspect  that  she  had  assumed  my 
moral  well-being  as  one  of  them. 

Her  priggishness  was  so  unconscious — so 
sincere,  if  one  may  say  so — that  it  staggered 
me.  Her  calmly  complacent  truisms  con- 
founded any  subtleties  by  marching  over  them 
— utterly  ignoring  them.  One  could  not 

argue  with  her,  for  she  was  so  sublimely  sure  of 
19  289 


290  MISS  JONES  AND 

herself  that  she  made  one  doubt  the  divine  right 
of  good  taste,  and  wonder  if  flat-footed  stu- 
pidity were  not  right  after  all. 

And,  above  all,  however  questionable  her 
mental  attributes  might  be,  her  moral  worth 
was  certainly  awe-inspiring.  The  clear,  me- 
tallic flawlessness  of  her  conscience  seemed  to 
glare  in  one's  eyes,  and  poor  every-day  man- 
hood shrunk  into  itself,  painfully  aware  of  spots 
and  fissures. 

"Yes,"  Miss  Jones  said,  leaning  back  in  her 
incongruous  robes;  "yes,  the  longer  I  live  the 
more  I  feel  that,  as  Longfellow  says : 

Life  is  real,  life  is  earnest." 

She  emphasized  the  quotation  with  sol- 
emnity: "We  can't  trifle  with  our  lives;  we 
can't  play  through  them.  We  must  live  them. 
We  must  make  something  of  them." 

"Each  man  after  his  own  nature,"  I  sug- 
gested, feebly,  for  I  felt  sure  that  "we  can't 
paint  through  them"  was  implied,  and  wished 
to  turn  from  that  issue,  with  which  I  felt  my- 
self incapable  of  grappling. 

But  Miss  Jones  was  not  to  be  balked  of  her 
moral. 

"We  build  our  own  characters,"  she  said, 
and  her  look  held  kind  warning.  "We  must 


THE  MASTERPIECE  291 

not  act  after  our  own  nature  if  that  nature  is 
base  or  trivial/' 

"I  know,"  I  murmured. 

"It  is  only  by  holding  firmly  to  an  ideal  that 
we  rise,  step  by  step,  beyond  our  lower  selves." 

Beyond  "Manon  Lescaut"  to  "Faith  Con- 
quers Fear"  this  might  mean. 

"And  ideals  we  must  have,"  she  pursued. 
Then  rising,  her  little  air  of  guide  and  coun- 
sellor touched  with  a  smile :  "But  I  must  not 
preach  too  much,  must  I  ?" 

It  was  comforting  to  dwell  on  the  ludi- 
crous aspects  of  this  mentorship,  for,  when  my 
thoughts  led  me  to  .a  contemplation  of  Miss 
Jones's  ideals,  I  felt  my  position  to  be  meanly 
hypocritical,  if  not  "base."  Manon  was  al- 
most finished.  Ah!  it  was  superb! — but  even 
my  joy  in  Manon  rankled  and  had  lost  its  sa- 
vour. Manon  was  there  under  false  pretences, 
her  presence  a  subtle  insult  to  Miss  Jones. 
Miss  Jones  in  her  flaming  gown  took  on  sym- 
bolical meanings.  An  unconscious  martyr 
wearing,  did  she  but  know  it,  the  veritable  robe 
of  Nessus!  A  sense  of  protectorship,  tender 
in  its  self-reproach,  grew  upon  me — a  longing 
for  atonement.  I  had  sacrificed  Miss  Jones  to 
my  masterpiece,  and  its  beauty  was  baleful, 
vampire-like. 


292  MISS  JONES  AND 

It  was  indeed  a  small  thing  to  take  Miss 
Jones's  homilies  humbly.  Indeed,  for  this  hu- 
mility I  could  claim  no  element  of  expiation, 
for  I  really  liked  to  hear  her;  she  looked  so 
pretty  when  she  talked.  It  was  all  so  touching 
and  so  amusing. 

I  am  not  sure  that  she  had  read  Dante,  but 
if  she  had  she  no  doubt  saw  herself  something 
in  the  guise  of  a  Beatrice  stooping  from  heights 
of  wisdom  to  support  my  straying,  faltering 
footsteps.  She  brought  me  one  day  a  feeble  lit- 
tle volume  of  third-rate  verse,  with  a  page 
turned  down  at  a  passage  she  requested  me 
to  read.  The  badly  constructed  lines,  their 
grandiloquent  sentimentality,  jarred  on  me; 
but  in  them  I  perceived  a  complimentary  appli- 
cation that  might  imply  much  encouragement. 
Miss  Jones  evidently  thought  that  I  was  rising 
step  by  step,  and  put  this  cordial  to  my  lips. 
I  thanked  her  very  earnestly — feeling  posi- 
tively shrivelled — and  then,  turning  from  the 
subject  with  a  haste  I  hoped  she  might  impute 
to  modesty — and  indeed  modesty  of  a  certain 
humiliating  kind  did  form  part  of  it — I  told 
her  that  Manon  would  only  require  another  sit- 
ting after  that  day. 

"Ah!  is  it  finished,  then?" 

She  went  to  look  at  it. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  293 

"Is  my  left  eye  as  indistinct  as  that?"  she 
asked,  playfully.  "Can't  you  see  my  eye- 
lashes ?  That  is  impressionism,  I  suppose."  I 
felt  my  forehead  growing  hot. 

"The  left  eye  is  in  shadow,"  I  observed. 

"I  am  afraid  shadows  are  convenient  some- 
times, aren't  they  ?  I  like  just  a  plain,  straight- 
forward telling  of  the  truth,  with  no  green 
paint  over  it!  You  accept  a  little  well-meant 
teasing,  don't  you  ?" 

I  accepted  it  as  I  had  to  accept  her  various 
revelations  of  stupefying  obtuseness,  and  smiled 
over  the  sandy  mouthful. 

"Yes,"  she  pursued,  carefully  looking  up  and 
down  the  canvas — certainly  a  new  sign  of  in- 
terest in  me  and  my  work — "you  will  need  quite 
two  days  to  finish  it ;  the  hands  especially,  they 
are  rather  sketchy  about  the  finger-tips."  She 
might  have  been  a  genial  old  professor  giving 
me  advice  mingled  with  the  good-humored  rail- 
lerie  of  superiority.  The  hands  were  finished; 
but  I  kept  a  cowardly  silence. 

"And  the  dress  must  be  a  good  bit  more  dis- 
tinctly outlined ;  I  can't  see  where  it  goes  on  this 
side;  and  then  the  details  of  the  background — 
I  can  hardly  tell  what  those  dashes  and  splashes 
on  the  dressing-table  are  supposed  to  repre- 
sent." 


294  MISS  JONES  AND 

"I  think  you  are  standing  a  little  too  near 
the  canvas,"  I  said,  in  a  voice  which  I  strove  to 
free  from  a  tone  of  patient  long-suffering.  "If 
you  go  farther  away,  you  will  get  the  effect  of 
the  ensemble." 

"No,  no !"  she  laughed ;  she  evidently  thought 
that  her  ethical  relationship  justified  an  equally 
frank  aesthetic  helpfulness,  and  her  air  of  com- 
petence was  bewildering.  "No,  we  must  not 
run  away  from  the  truth!  A  smudge  is  a 
smudge  from  whatever  standpoint  one  looks  at 
it,  and  a  smear  a  smear." 

The  masterly  treatment  of  porcelains,  ivories, 
and  silver  on  the  dressing-table,  glimmering 
and  gleaming  from  the  soft  shadows,  to  be 
qualified  in  such  terms ! 

"You  are  rather  severe,"  I  said.  My  dis- 
comfort was  apparent,  but  she  naturally  took 
it  to  be  on  my  own  behalf,  not,  as  it  was,  on 
hers. 

"Oh!  you  mustn't  think  that!  I  hope  I  am 
never  unduly  severe.  You  will  easily  mend  mat- 
ters to-day  and  to-morrow  and  polish  over  that 
rather  careless  look.  And,  as  far  as  that  goes, 
I  am  at  your  service  as  long  as  you  need  me." 

"As  model  and  critic,"  I  observed,  with  a 
touch  of  bitterness. 

"As  model  and  critic,"  she  repeated,  brightly. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  295 

"Do  you  know,"  she  added,  mounting  the  stand, 
"I  found  'Manon  Lescaut'  on  a  bookshelf  this 
morning.  I  didn't  know  that  it  was  a  French 
book.  I  am  going  to  read  it  this  evening." 

I  was  struck  dumb.  This  possibility  had 
never  presented  itself  to  me. 

"I  shall  find  the  scene  you  have  painted,"  she 
continued,  looking  down  at  her  gown  and  pat- 
ting a  fold  into  place;  "I  shall  see  whether  you 
have  illustrated  it  conscientiously." 

"The  book  wouldn't  interest  you  at  all !  Not 
at  all!"  I  burst  out,  conscious  of  a  feverish 
intensity  in  the  gaze  I  bent  upon  her.  "It  is — 
it  is  decidedly  dull!" 

"Is  it?"  said  Miss  Jones,  indifferently. 
"Now  I  can't  quite  believe  that.  You  evidently 
didn't  think  it  too  dull  to  illustrate.  There 
must  be  some  nice  bits  in  it,  and  I  mean  to  find 
the  bit  where  the  heroine,  in  a  pink  silk  gown, 
looks  at  herself  in  a  mirror." 

"Well,  you'll  find  no  such  bit.  I  haven't  illus- 
trated it!"  I  strove  to  keep  my  voice  fairly 
cool.  "I  merely  took  the  heroine's  name  as  in- 
dicative of  a  class,  and  chose  the  epoch  as 
characteristic.  The  book  is  dull,  old-fash- 
ioned." 

"Ah,  but  I  might  not  agree  with  you  there. 
Is  it  an  historical  novel?  I  like  them,  even  if 


296  MISS  JONES  AND 

they  are  rather  slow.     One  gets  all  sorts  of 
ideas  about  people  of  another  age." 

"It  isn't  historical."  Despite  my  efforts  my 
voice  was  growing  sharply  anxious,  and  Miss 
Jones  was  beginning  to  notice  my  anxiety. 
"And  the  characters  in  it  are  not  people  you 
would  care  to  have  ideas  about.  It  is  merely 
one  of  the  first  attempts  to  write  a  psychologi- 
cal study,  in  the  form  of  romance,  made  in 
France." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  exceedingly  interesting." 

"You  would  only  find  the  rather  crude  analy- 
sis of  a — a  disagreeable  girl." 

"You  think  /  am  like  a  disagreeable  girl, 
then !"  said  Miss  Jones,  still  laughing.  "From 
the  first  I  have  had  a  bit  of  a  grudge  against 
you  for  finding  me  so  suitable.  I  am  sure  I  am 
not  vain." 

"Manon  was  more  than  vain.  She  was 
heartless,  a  liar."  I  felt  myself  stumbling  from 
bad  to  worse.  "Not  in  the  least  like  you  in 
anything,  except  that  she  was  beautiful."  My 
explanation,  with  this  bald  piece  of  tasteless 
flattery,  had  hardly  helped  matters.  Indeed, 
Miss  Jones  became  rather  coldly  silent.  I 
painted  on,  my  mind  in  a  disturbing  whirl  of 
conjecture.  I  felt  convinced  that  I  had  merely 
whetted  her  curiosity  and  that  she  would  go 


THE  MASTERPIECE  297 

straight  home  to  the  perusal  of  "Manon" ;  and 
to  expect  from  her  the  faintest  literary  appre- 
ciation of  the  distinction  and  the  delicacy  of 
the  book  was  hopeless.  She  would  fasten  with 
horror  on  the  brazen  immorality  of  a  character 
she  had  been  chosen  to  embody.  The  blood 
surged  up  to  my  head  as  I  painted. 

As  Miss  Jones  was  preparing  to  go,  I  held 
out  my  hand. 

"Good-bye,"  I  said,  feeling  very  badly. 

"Good-bye  ?  Am  I  not  coming  to-morrow  ?" 
She  had  paused  in  the  act  of  neatly  folding  her 
umbrella,  which  had  been  thoughtfully  left  open 
to  dry  while  she  posed.  It  had  now  stopped 
raining. 

"Yes — yes,  of  course,"  I  stammered. 

She  secured  the  elastic  band,  and  then  looked 
at  me. 

"Miss  Jones,"  I  blurted  out,  abruptly,  "don't 
read  'Manon  Lescaut' ;  please  don't." 

Her  glance  became  severely  penetrating: 

"I  really  don't  understand  you,"  she  said, 
and  then  added:  "I  most  certainly  shall  read 
it." 

"Well,  if  you  do" — my  urgent  tone  delayed 
her  going — "try  to  judge  it  from  an  artistic 
standpoint,  you  know.  A  study — a  type. 
Don't  apply — ah — modern  standards." 


298  MISS  JONES  AND 

"I  shall  apply  my  standards.  I  know  no 
other  method  of  judging  a  book." 

"Well,  then," — my  manner  was  becoming 
pitiful — "remember  that  the  physical  resem- 
blance between  you  was  merely  in  my  imagina- 
tion." 

"I  have  always  believed  the  face  indicative 
of  the  character,  and  I'm  sorry  that  mine 
should  have  suggested  to  you  the  character  of 
a  liar,"  said  Miss  Jones.  It  was  evident  that 
already  she  was  hurt  and,  disregarding  my  re- 
iterated "It  did  not !  It  did  not !  upon  my  hon- 
our," she  opened  the  door  to  go.  I  still  de- 
tained her. 

"Miss  Jones,"  I  said,  standing  before  her,  "I 
know  that  you  are  going  to  misjudge  me,  and 
that,  because  you  see  certain  things  from  an  eth- 
ical and  I  from  a  purely  aesthetic  point  of  view." 

"I  can't  admit  the  division.  But  no;  I  hope 
I  shall  never  misjudge  you."  She  gave  me  a 
brief  little  smile  and  walked  quickly  away. 

Carrington  did  not  come  in  that  evening,  and 
I  was  glad  that  my  mental  anguish  had  no  ob- 
server. 

The  next  afternoon  at  two  I  awaited  Miss 
Jones.  My  picture,  virtually  finished,  stood 
regally  dominant  in  the  centre  of  the  studio. 

I  hated  and  I  adored  it.     I  saw  it  with  Miss 


THE  MASTERPIECE  299 

Jones's  eyes  and  I  saw  it  with  my  own ;  but  her 
crude  ethics  had,  on  the  whole,  poisoned  my 
aesthetic  triumph. 

At  two  there  came  the  familiar  rap.  Miss 
Jones  entered.  I  was  sitting  before  the  picture 
and  rose  to  meet  her.  Her  face  was  very  white 
and  very  cold,  and  from  under  the  tipped  brim 
of  the  little  hat  her  eyes  looked  sternly  at  me. 
I  looked  back  at  her  silently. 

"I  have  read  'Manon  Lescaut/"  said  Miss 
Jones.  I  found  nothing  to  say. 

"You  will  understand  that  I  cannot  sit  to- 
day. You  will  understand  that  I  never  should 
have  sat  for  you  at  all  had  I  known,"  Miss 
Jones  pursued. 

I  said  that  I  understood. 

"I  have  come  to-day  to  bring  you  back  the 
money  that  I  have  earned  under  false  pre- 
tences." 

She  laid  the  little  packet  down  upon  the  table. 
I  turned  white.  "And  to  ask  you" — here  Miss 
Jones  observed  me  steadily — "whether  you  do 
not  feel  that  you  owe  me  apologies." 

"Miss  Jones,"  I  said,  "I  have  unwittingly, 
unintentionally,  given  you  great  pain;  that, 
with  my  present  knowledge  of  your  exceptional 
character,  I  now  see  to  have  been  inevitable. 
I  humbly  beg  your  pardon  for  it,  but  I  also  beg 


300  MISS  JONES  AND 

you  to  believe  that  from  the  first  I  never  thought 
of  you  but  with  respect  and  admiration." 

Miss  Jones's  face  took  on  quite  a  terrible 
look. 

"Respect!  Admiration!  While  you  were 
looking  from  me  to  that!"  She  pointed  to 
Manon.  "While  I  was  clothing  your  imagina- 
tion, personifying  to  you  that  vile  creature !" 

I  tried  to  stop  her  with  an  exclamation  of 
shocked  denial,  but  she  went  on,  with  fierce 
dignity : 

"Exceptional!  You  call  it  exceptional  to 
feel  debased  by  that  association?  Can  I  ever 
look  at  my  face  again  without  thinking:  'The 
face  of  Manon  Lescaut?'  Can  I  ever  forget 
that  we  were  thought  of  as  one?  No" — she 
held  up  her  hand — "let  me  speak.  Do  you 
suppose  I  cannot  see  now  the  cleverness,  yes, 
the  diabolical  cleverness,  of  your  picture  of  me 
there?  The  likeness  is  horrible;  and  there  I 
shall  stand  for  the  world  to  gaze  at  as  long  as 
the  canvas  lasts  and  as  long  as  people  look  at 
any  pictures.  There  /  shall  be,  gibbeted  in 
that  woman's  smile!  No,  I  have  not  done! 
There  will  be  no  escape  possible.  Somewhere 
— I  shall  always  feel  it  like  a  hot  iron  searing 
me — somewhere  that  other  I  will  be  all  my  life 
long,  and  when  I  am  dead,  and  for  centuries 


THE  MASTERPIECE  301 

perhaps,  she  will  smile  on,  and  my  image  will 
be  looked  at  as  a  type  of  vice !  I  see  it  now," 
'and  with  a  sort  of  grandeur  of  revelation  she 
turned  upon  Manon,  "I  see  that  it  is  a  master- 
piece !" 

I  placed  myself  between  her  and  it. 

"Miss  Jones,"  I  said,  "this  is  rather  a  su- 
preme moment  for  me,  more  supreme  than  you 
will  ever  understand.  I  forgot  you  for  my  pic- 
ture; I  will  not  forget  my  picture  for  you." 
The  icy  fire  of  her  eyes  followed  me  while  I 
went  to  the  table  and  took  up  a  sharp,  long  dag- 
ger which  lay  beside  the  little  packet  of  money. 
I  returned  to  the  picture  and,  giving  it  one  long 
look,  I  ripped  the  canvas  from  top  to  bottom. 
Miss  Jones  made  neither  sound  nor  sign.  With 
dogged  despair  I  pierced  the  smiling  face,  I 
hacked  and  rent  the  exquisite  thing.  The  rose- 
coloured  tatters  fell  forward;  in  five  minutes 
"Manon  Lescaut"  was  dead,  utterly  annihi- 
lated, and  Miss  Jones  surveyed  the  place  where 
she  had  been.  I  turned  to  her,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that  my  face  expressed  my  exultant  mis- 
ery. 

"And  now !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Now,"  said  Miss  Jones,  looking  solemnly 
at  me,  "you  have  done  right,  you  have  done 
nobly,  and  you  will  be  the  happier  for  it." 


302  MISS  JONES  AND 

"Shall  I  ?"  I  said,  approaching  her.  "Shall 
I?" 

"Yes.  I  can  confidently  say  it.  That  bad 
thing  would  have  poisoned  your  life  as  it  would 
have  poisoned  mine."  I  ignored  the  misstate- 
ment. 

"Miss  Jones,"  I  said,  "for  your  sake  I  have 
destroyed  the  best  thing  in  my  life;  may  I  hope 
for  a  better  ?  I  love  you." 

Her  pale  and  beautiful  face  looked  very  little 
less  calm,  but  certainly  a  little  dismayed,  cer- 
tainly a  little  sorry. 

"The  best  thing  has  been  this  act  of  sacri- 
fice," she  said ;  "don't  spoil  that  by  any  weak  re- 
gret. You  have  gained  my  admiration  and  my 
respect;  but  for  better  things,  if  better  there 
are,  I  accepted  Mr.  Carrington  last  night." 

Perhaps  I  don't  regret.  Though  she  was  a 
prig,  I  had  loved  her  in  the  half  hour's  exalta- 
tion. I  am  certainly  not  sorry  that  she  married 
Carrington.  They  seem  to  be  very  happy. 
But  the  chivalrous  moment  was  worth  while — 
perhaps.  However  that  may  be,  since  then  I 
have  never  painted  anything  as  good  as  Manon 
Lescaut. 

THE   END 


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The  plot  turns  upon  the  question  of  heredity.  "  It  is  a  long  time 
since  a  story  of  character  so  distinct,  so  searching,  and  so  convinc- 
ing has  appeared."  $1.50 

THE  CONFOUNDING  OF  GAMELIA 

A  modern  "Taming  of  the  Shrew."  $1.50 

THE  DULL  MISS  ARGHINARD 

"  Anne  Douglas  Sedgwick  is  a  finished  writer.  Her  work  is  as 
characteristic  of  people,  places,  and  things  of  to-day  as  is  Jane 
Austen's  of  her  day."  $1.50 

For  sale  everywhere.     Published  by 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 


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